r/TheGayErotica

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The haunted house spit us out into the parking lot at 11:40. Fake blood on Locke’s forearm. A plastic chain still hanging off my wrist from the last scare actor. The fair lights were dying one section at a time. Cotton candy machines off. The zipper ride still spinning empty for nobody.
Locke walked like he owned the gravel. 2Pac hoodie jacket unzipped over a bare chest, Adidas shorts, Yeezy sneakers. Faded cut sharp. Beard lined up. Dark eyes already on the highway in his head. Twenty-nine and moving like the night was a quarter-mile.

The fair had been his idea. He saw the billboard on the way back from the body shop and said we were going, no discussion. I paid for nothing. He bought the beers, the tickets, the cotton candy, the fried stuff that sat in my stomach the whole walk through the barns. Every time a scare actor jumped out he didn’t flinch. He laughed. He put a hand on the back of my neck and steered me through the dark like I was still twelve and this was a corn maze.

His boys had texted the group chat the whole night. Photos of some girl at a bar. A clip of a dunk from earlier. Locke answered one-handed while we stood in line for the zipper, thumb moving, grin sharp.

“They asking where I’m at,” he said. “I told ‘em I’m with my little brother. They know what that means. Hands off.”

He liked saying it. Liked the way it made me look at the ground. The mascot thing wasn’t a joke to him. It was a rule. I was the gay kid he could show and protect and never have to explain. Glass. Until the car. Until the highway.

On the zipper he sat across from me, hoodie open, tattoos jumping every time the cage flipped. He whooped at the top. I watched the way his shorts rode up his thighs and hated myself for it in a circle of cheap lights.
When we got off he threw an arm around my shoulders and left it there all the way to the parking lot. Heavy. Warm. The 2Pac hoodie smelled like the blunt and the metal of the ride.

“Get in, Payne.”

I got in. Twenty-two. Gay. His little brother. The mascot he showed his boys at the park on Sundays.

This my baby brother. Don’t even look at him wrong.

He walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He paid for the beers at the fair without asking. He treated me like glass until he didn’t.
The black matte Defender woke up like an animal. Lifted. Tinted. Exhaust that made the next row of cars look at us. Inside it smelled like the blunt he’d smoked behind the funnel-cake stand, sweat from walking the fair in August heat, and the oil he never quite washed off his hands from the shop. He dropped his phone in the cup holder, queued an old Migos album, and turned it up until the doors shook.

We sat in the lot for a minute while he rolled another one. Not talking. Just the tick of the engine and some trap song. He lit it, cracked the window, and pulled out toward the interstate like the road had said his name.
For the first ten minutes he drove normal. Which for Locke still meant eighty in a sixty-five. One wrist on the wheel. The other on the shifter. Hoodie open. Tattoos moving when he changed lanes.

“You see that girl in the coffin room?” he said. “The one with the fishnets. I would’ve hit that in the parking lot if you weren’t standing there looking like somebody’s little brother.”

“I am somebody’s little brother.”

“That’s what I said.” He grinned without looking at me. “You have fun or you spend the whole time watching me?”

I spent the whole time watching him. I didn’t say that.

“It was fun.” I was more blasé, he’s the excited one.

“You good?” he asked.

“I’m good.”

“You look like you seen a ghost. It was fake blood, Payne. Relax.”

It wasn’t the blood.

“You been quiet all night.”

“I’m quiet.”

“Nah. Different quiet.” Dense smoke crawled across the cab. “You thinking about some dude? Don’t lie. I can tell when you got that look.”

“I’m not thinking about some dude.”

“Aight.” He didn’t believe me. He looked straight while driving fast. Hands gripping the beast that’s his car.

I watched his hands. I always watched his hands. Veiny and strong. They can punch a guy out.

He passed me the blunt. I took a small hit and coughed. He laughed and took it back.

“Biggest fantasy I got,” he said, casual, like he was talking about a new exhaust, “some girl sucking me off while I’m doing ninety on the interstate. Head down. I don’t even gotta look. Just drive. Fast and Furious shit but with a real mouth on it.”

He glanced over. Dark eyes. A little red from the weed.

“What’s yours, little bro? Don’t say some gay shit like getting married.”

I should’ve lied. The beers from the fair were still warm in my chest. The blunt made my mouth honest.

“Sucking you. And your basketball crew.”

Locke barked a laugh so hard the Defender drifted.

“Yo. You wild. You playin’.”

I wasn’t. My hand was already on his thigh. Adidas shorts. Warm skin, strong legs, my brother didn’t skip legs day. Muscle jumping under my palm. I slid higher, slow, giving him time to knock it off.

“Payne.” His voice dropped. Not loud. Worse. “Don’t touch my dick. You’re my brother.”

I didn’t take the hand away. I massaged the inside of his thigh, thumb tracing the hem of the shorts. The car smelled louder now that I was leaning in. Skunk. Sweat. Him. My brother Locke.
He lasted maybe thirty seconds.

“Aight. Touch it. See if it even gets hard. This is stupid.”

I palmed him through the shorts. He was already filling. Heavy. The shape of it curved down against his left thigh, thick enough my hand didn’t cover it. When I squeezed, he hissed and the truck kissed the rumble strip before he yanked it back.

“Fuck.”

It got hard fast. A downward curve made a fat, ugly outline in the black fabric. Head already shoving at the hem. Locke stared at the road. Jaw tight. The faded line of his cut sharp in the dash light.

“You gonna suck it while I drive or you just gonna hold it like a bitch?”

“I’ll suck it.”

He nodded once. Like we were calling a play.

“I got you. I got your back. Anything happens, I handle it. You just do what you said. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

My heart was in my mouth. From the opportunity to suck my big bro. From the speed waiting in his foot. From the way his whole face changed when he talked about going fast.

He hit the hazards and yanked the Defender onto the shoulder so hard the gravel sprayed the undercarriage. The music died mid-bar. For a second the only sound was the tick of the engine and the cars ripping past us at eighty.
Locke sat there with both hands on the wheel. Jaw locked. Staring at the dark like it had called him a name.

“This is fucked,” he said.

Not to me. To the windshield.

“This is actually fucked. You’re my little brother. I raised you when Dad was working doubles. I walked you into school. And you got your hand on my dick on the interstate like that’s normal.”

He laughed once. Ugly. No humor in it.

“I should put you out on this shoulder and make you walk home. That’s what I should do.”

He didn’t move.
The 2Pac hoodie jacket was still on. Unzipped. His chest going up and down too fast for a man who wasn’t scared of anything. I could see the line of him in the shorts, hard, shameless, curved down against his thigh. He looked at it like it had betrayed him.

“You did this,” he said. Quiet. Mean. “You put your hand there. You said that shit about me and my boys. You sat in my truck all night looking at me like that and now I’m hard on the side of a highway thinking about my brother’s mouth. You understand how twisted that is?”

“I know.”

“Don’t I know me.” His hand left the wheel and pointed at my face without touching it. “You don’t get to be calm about this. I’m the one who has to look at Mom tomorrow. I’m the one who has to ball with my boys knowing I let you—”

He stopped. Dragged a hand down his mouth. Looked at the bulge again like he hated it.
Then he ripped the hoodie off and threw it in the back.
Bare chest. Ink. Sweat from the fair still on him. He looked bigger in the dark. Pissed. Hard. The two things fighting in the same body.

“I almost said no,” he said, staring at me. “I almost drove off and left this whole conversation in the lot. You know why I didn’t?”

I shook my head.

“Because I’m still hard. That’s why. Because you touched it and it got worse instead of going away. Because the second you said you’d suck it my foot got heavier. That’s the part that’s making me angry. Not you. Me. For not shutting this down when I had the chance.”

He shoved the shorts and the boxers down enough in one angry motion, like if he did it slow he might stop. His cock sprang out, long, thick, veined, curving down toward the seat like it had its own gravity. The head was half-covered until he was all the way hard. It looked mean. It looked built to sit in a mouth at this angle without anyone having to crane their neck.
He clipped the seatbelt back on. Left the shorts around his thighs.

“Hands on my chest if you want. Don’t block the wheel. Don’t hit the shifter. You ready or not?”

I put both hands on his pecs. Warm. Solid. Heart hammering under the tattoos.

“Can I go?”

Not sweet. Checking.

“Go.”

He turned the Migos album back up until my teeth buzzed and pulled into the lane like the highway had been holding a spot for him.
I unclipped and dropped my head into his lap.
The first taste was sweat and skin and the weed on his fingers when he pushed me down. I took the head and the curve did exactly what I thought it would — fed itself down my throat with almost no fight. I didn’t have to work the angle. He was built for this. For a mouth in a moving truck. I swallowed around him and Locke made a sound I had never heard in twenty-two years of being his brother.

“Fuck yeah. That’s it. Take that shit.”

He dumped a gear and the Defender surged. My stomach dropped. The force shoved my face into him, nose in his crotch, cock buried. I gagged and stayed. He grabbed my hair and held me there while he passed a car like it was parked.

“You feel that? That’s a hundred. You still sucking? Don’t you tap out on me now, Payne. You wanted this.”

I wanted it. The speed made everything bigger. The bass. His breathing. The wet noise in my throat. Cold AC on the back of my neck. His thighs locked under my hands. I came up for air and he shoved me back down, using my mouth the way he’d described some girl doing it. No looking. Just driving. Just taking.

“That’s a real one. That’s a G move. White boy in a black truck with his little brother’s throat on his dick at midnight. You hear this? This the shit. I ain’t slowing down. Don’t you slow down neither.”

On the highway with the volume at twenty he wasn’t the guy who walked on the outside of the sidewalk. He was the one his boys called when a ride and a problem needed handling. Champion. Mean. Laughing at the speedometer. A true G in his own head and, for the next eight miles, in mine too.

I made it sloppy on purpose. Spit ran down his balls onto the shorts. Every pass leaned the truck and pushed him deeper. I choked. He laughed, short and crazy, and flexed his hand in my hair.

“Look at you. Baby brother out here chewing dick like you been waiting your whole life. You have. Don’t lie. I seen how you look at me when I come in from ball. Shirt off. Sweating. I seen it. I just try my best to ignore it, forget it.”

He wasn’t wrong.
Headlights filled the back window. Locke checked the mirror, didn’t flinch, dropped a gear, and left them for dead. The surge drove me down again. Eyes watering. Him getting wetter, saltier, on my tongue. Weed in my nose. His chest pumping under my left hand.

“I’ma use your throat like a toy. That’s what you asked for. That’s what you get. Friends too, you said. You remember that? My boys. You still saying that with my dick in your mouth?”

I couldn’t talk. I tapped his thigh once. Yes.

“Nasty fag. That’s nasty. I love that shit. Keep sucking. We got empty road. Don’t waste it.”

He fucked my face on the dashed lines. Short punches in the left lane. Longer strokes when it opened up. I drooled on him. Jaw burning. I kept going. The curve made it filthy. Every time I came up, the head dragged my tongue and slapped back in.

A semi blew past the other way and the whole truck shook. Locke whooped like he’d scored and shoved me down to the root.

“You better not throw up in my truck. I just detailed this bitch.”

I didn’t. I swallowed around him and he groaned from the chest.
Empty highway. Late. Just us and the matte black eating miles. His voice went hoarse.

“I’m close. You swallow. All of it. I ain’t pulling over so you can spit on the shoulder like a bitch. You eat it like a good faggot. You hear me?”

“Walk it talk it” playing loud. He held my head down. Engine screaming. Flying. I couldn’t breathe and I didn’t want to. His hips lifted against the belt and he came with his head tipped back, yelling into the Migos like the song was about him.

“Fuck yeah — fuck yeah — take it —”

Hot. Thick. A lot. Pulsing straight down my throat while the truck stayed in a straight line at a speed that would’ve buried anybody else in a ditch. I swallowed until he was twitching and swearing and his hand in my hair went from mean to something almost proud.

He let me up.
I stayed down one more second, breathing against his thigh, the taste of him all the way back. His chest was heaving. Sweat at the edge of the fade. Wrecked. Proud.
He didn’t talk until the next exit. Then he tucked himself into the shorts with one hand, kept the other on the wheel, and turned the music down two clicks. Only two.

“Sit up. Belt on. I don’t want a ticket.”

I sat up. Wiped my mouth on my wrist. Clipped in.
We didn’t talk through town. Streetlights slid over the wrap. His profile looked carved. One wrist on the wheel. The 2Pac hoodie in a heap behind the seats. My mouth still full of him. My stomach still doing the highway.
The Defender rolled into the driveway. Engine died. House dark. Mom’s car parked. The garage light kicked on and made the ink on his chest look wet.
Locke sat there with both hands on the wheel, staring at the brick like it might say something back.

“That was the best ride of my life,” he said. Quiet. No performance. “You hear me? Best ride I ever had.”

I remembered a song from Tinashe that I loved “Ride of your life”. I gave him the ride of his life. That’s absolutely insane. I felt powerful.

He looked over. Dark eyes. Still a little crazy from the speed.

“You tell nobody. Not the boys. Not nobody. I got your back. You got mine. That’s the deal.”

“That’s the deal. But you should ask your crew…”

“Don’t be greedy, lil bro. Not sure yet if you can handle the big dogs. Let’s see, let’s see.”

He reached over and squeezed the back of my neck once, hard, the same way he did after a game when I’d done something right by accident. Then he got out shirtless with the hoodie in his fist and the shorts still sitting low.

I sat in the passenger seat until the bass stopped living in my ribs.
Then I followed him inside, the taste of my brother still in my throat, the interstate still in my stomach, already knowing the next time he said get in I was getting in — and that someday, soon I hope, he was going to remember what I said about his friends.

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 1 - The Storm

I knew he hated me before he said a word.
That was the thing about Aaron Summers. He didn’t need language. He had a face for it. The kind of face that looked at you like you’d already wasted his time by existing. Twenty-five. Tall. Gold chain. Dog tags that weren’t from any war, just from being the kind of guy who wore metal on a bare chest and expected the room to rearrange itself. Left arm inked from shoulder to wrist. Chest hair trimmed extremely close, not gone. Stubble like sandpaper. Sweating even in the air-conditioning.

He had been in another state trying to be somebody. College football. A career that was supposed to save him from becoming his father’s employee in a construction company. Then the knee went, or the shoulder, or whatever story he didn’t tell me, and he came home pissed off and sunburned from a life that hadn’t worked, and found out his dad had married my mom while he was gone.

Selma and Adam. A courthouse thing, nothing flashy. I was there. Aaron was not. His relationship with his dad was not the best. He showed up two weeks later with a duffel bag and a red hat and looked at me in the kitchen like I was a stain on a jersey.
We’d had maybe three conversations before the Caribbean.
All of them were ugly.

The resort was the kind of place that photographed well and ran out of rooms. Adam had booked two queens. The desk gave us a king and a smile and said the island was full through the weekend. Honeymoon season. No upgrades. No cots. My mother said it would be fine. Adam said Aaron was an adult. Aaron stood there with his bag on one shoulder and the red hat in his fist and laughed once, no humor in it.

“You’re joking.”

“It’s seven nights, not the end of the world.” Adam said, annoyed with his son.

“I’m twenty-five.”

“And he’s twenty-one. You’re not children. You’re supposed to be like brothers now.”

Aaron looked at me. Really looked. Up and down. Tall, he could see that. Skinny, he could see that too. No hair on my arms or face. Hazel eyes. The half-Latino baby face that made older guys hit on me and made jock guys like him decide what I was before I opened my mouth.

“This is bullshit,” he said.

Then he took the card key.
That was Aaron. Too old for a tantrum and too cocky to pretend he wasn’t having one.
The room was white and too small for him. One bed. A balcony that looked at palm trees and a slice of turquoise water. The air smelled like sunscreen and wet stone. He threw his bag on the side by the window, pulled his shirt off like the room belonged to him, and I got the whole thing at once. The chest. The ink. The chain. The way he was built for a sport he couldn’t play anymore. He was already sweating. He was always sweating. It sat on him like a second skin, shiny, clean, the smell of a guy who had been outside in heat and didn’t care if you noticed.

“You take the left,” he said. “You kick, I put you on the floor.”

“I’m not going to kick you.”

“You talk in your sleep, I put you on the floor too.”

He went into the bathroom and left the door open. Water. The slap of it. He came out in shorts and nothing else, dragging a towel over his hair, and the stubble on his jaw looked worse under the hotel light. Sandpaper. He caught me looking and his mouth went mean.

“What.”

“Nothing.”

“You always stare like that, or is this a special occasion.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He scratched his stomach, slow, like he had all night. “I know what you are. I knew the second my father send me a picture of the wedding. You can do whatever you do in your own room at home. You don’t do it here. You don’t look at me like that. You don’t get weird. We sleep. We eat. We get through this circus and I go back to work at home. We clear?”

“We’re clear.”

“Say it like you mean it, Diego.”

He said my name like it was a joke he’d already told.

“We’re clear.”

He nodded once, like he’d won something small, and dropped onto his side of the bed. The mattress dipped. He was heavier than he looked. He took up more than half without trying. I lay on my edge and listened to the air conditioner and the ocean and the sound of him breathing like a man who had never been afraid of anything in his life.
I hated him.
That was the story I told myself. It was easier than the other one… that he was the hottest guy I’ve seen in person.

The first full day was a performance.
Adam and my mom did the couple thing. Beach. Drinks with fruit in them. Photographs. Aaron did the son thing for about twenty minutes and then peeled off to the gym and the pool and anywhere I wasn’t. I watched him from under an umbrella because there was nothing else I wanted to look at that wasn’t him. He swam like he’d been built for it. He came out of the water with his shorts stuck to his thighs and the chain flashing and that red hat back on his wet hair. A girl at the next cabana said something to him. He smiled at her the way he had never smiled at me. Then he looked over and found me watching and the smile died.
He walked up, dripping, and stood in my sun on purpose.

“You gonna sit there all day like somebody’s grandma?

“I’m listening to music and sunbathing.”

“Bullshit. You’re staring, and you’re tanned by nature.”

He leaned down. Close enough that I got the heat off him. Chlorine and skin and whatever cheap cologne he’d put on in the morning that the ocean had already ruined.

“You know what you look like,” he said, quiet, so our parents wouldn’t hear it from the water. “You look like you’re waiting for somebody to save your from your bored emo life. Don’t do that on my vacation.”

“It’s not your vacation.”

“It’s my dad’s money and my time. Same thing.” He straightened. Water ran down the groove in his stomach. “And put a shirt on if you’re gonna be that skinny in public. It’s embarrassing, I can see your bones. Get a burger.”

He said it the way Aaron’s kind of men said things. Not loud. Not for an audience. Just to put it in you and leave it there.
I put the shirt on, ashamed.
He laughed under his breath and walked away.

That night we did dinner as a family and Aaron barely spoke to me. He spoke to Adam about the company and his future role in the company, leading worker’s teams. He spoke to the waiter. He spoke to a blonde two tables over when he got up for the bathroom. In the room he took the shower first, long, and came out in a towel and sat on the edge of the bed scrolling his phone like I was furniture. I showered after him. The bathroom still smelled like him, his super strong manly body wash. When I came back he was already on his side, back to me, the sheet at his waist, the tattooed arm flung over the pillow.

“Don’t hog the sheets,” he said, without turning.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

I wasn’t thinking about the sheets.
I lay there in the dark and listened to him fall asleep in under two minutes, the way people that drink strong alcohol and had no guilt slept, and I hated him for that too.

The second day was hotter.
Tropical heat that didn’t move. Sticky. The kind that sat on your chest. Aaron spent the afternoon shirtless on the balcony with a beer, one ankle on the railing, scrolling, occasionally talking to Adam through the balcony about some account at the firm. I stayed inside because the balcony was his now, the way the window side of the bed was his, the way the bathroom counter was his the second he set his chain on it.

“You can come out,” he said, not looking at me. “I’m not gonna bite you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re hiding.”

“I’m sitting.”

He turned his head. The stubble caught the light. His eyes were paler than I expected up close. Not kind.

“You’re always sitting. That’s your whole personality. Sit. Read. Music. Instagram. Look at people. You ever do anything that requires a spine?”

“You don’t know me, at all.”

“I know enough to know that I don’t like you. You’re a liability to my dad’s money.” He took a pull of the beer. “I know you let my dad walk into your house and you said yes to all of it. I know you look at me like I kicked your dog. I know you’re the reason I have to sleep in a bed with a kid who still looks fifteen.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Then act like it. You can legally drink you know. You should drink tonight to loosen up.”

He went back to his phone. I stood there too long. He knew I was standing there. That was the point.

“Go to the pool, Diego. Go find somebody your speed. I’m not entertainment.”

I went to the pool and to the paradise beach.
I didn’t find anybody my speed. All the guys were with someone and I can’t find anyone hotter than Aaron. It’s hard to want cheap two dollars Christmas chocolate when you like Swiss chocolate. I sat in the water up to my neck and watched the sky start to bruise over the water, a green-purple that didn’t belong to a postcard, and I told myself the weather would pass.
It didn’t.

The storm hit after midnight.
I have been afraid of thunder since I was small. Not the cute kind of afraid. Not a jump and a laugh. The kind that gets into your chest and stays. A night when I was eight, a tree through a window, the sound of it, my mother screaming. I don’t tell that story. I don’t tell most stories. Aaron would have used it.

The first crack woke me like a hand on the back of my neck. When I hear thunders my minds makes me think the world will end.
The room was black except for the balcony doors, which went white for a second and then died. Rain hit the glass like someone throwing it. The air conditioner had lost the fight. The room was all heat and the smell of him — skin, sweat, some strong cologne, the industrial detergent on the sheets we were both in.

Aaron didn’t move.
The second crack was closer. The whole building seemed to flinch. I made a sound I didn’t mean to make. Small. Ugly. I turned my face into the pillow and that made it worse because the pillow smelled like his neck.

“The fuck,” Aaron muttered.

Another flash. The rain got louder. I was already shaking. I hate that about myself. I hate that my body does this without asking. I pulled my knees up and tried to be quiet and failed on the next one, a boom that sat on the roof, and something came out of me that was not words.
The mattress shifted.

“Diego.”

I didn’t answer.

“Are you— are you crying?”

He said it like it was the stupidest thing that had happened to him all year.

“I’m fine.” I lied.

“You’re not fine. You’re making noise.”

Lightning again. I flinched so hard my shoulder hit his arm. He was hotter than the room. Bare. The hair on his chest against my skin for half a second before I jerked back.

“Jeez.” he said.

He sat up. I could hear him doing it. The chain clicked. He dragged a hand over his face.

“It’s a tropical storm. It’s a tropical island. They have tropical storms. You’re twenty-one.”

“I know. Just let me be.”

“Then stop, I can’t sleep.”

“I can’t.”

It came out worse than I wanted. Raw. I pressed the heel of my hand to my eyes and hated him for being awake to see it.
Silence. Rain. Then he swore, low, the kind of swear you do when you’ve already lost the argument with yourself.

“Come here.”

“What.”

“I said come here, Diego. I’m not repeating myself. I have to work out at seven in the fucking morning and I am not lying here listening to you whimper until dawn. Come here.”

I didn’t move.
He reached across the bed and got a handful of my shirt and pulled. Not gentle. Not cruel, exactly. Just done. I ended up against him because there was nowhere else the king bed would let me go. His chest was a wall. Heat. The trimmed hair. The chain between us. He smelled like sleep and sweat and the Mexican he’d had at dinner.

“I’m not—”

“Shut up.”

His arm came around my back, heavy, reluctant, like he was holding a piece of furniture in place. His other hand stayed on his own stomach, as if he needed to keep that part of himself honest.

“You’re shaking.”

“I know, I hate thunders.”

“This is pathetic.”

“I know.”

Thunder again. I went rigid. His arm tightened, not because he cared about me, because he wanted it over. My face was in the hollow under his collarbone. I could hear his heart. It was slower than mine. Everything about him was different from me.

“Breathe,” he said. It sounded like an order from a locker room. “In. Out. You’re not dying. It’s weather, not a fucking earthquake.”

I breathed.
His skin was damp. The storm had made the room a sauna. Every time the sky went white I saw his jaw, the stubble, the tattoo on the arm that had me caged, and then it was dark again and there was only the heat of him.

“You do this at home?” he asked, after a minute.

“Sometimes.”

“Who holds you there. Your mom?”

“Nobody, I just put my music loud and hide my face with a pillow.”

He made a sound in his chest. Not nice. Not soft. Something that might have been disgust and might have been something else.

“Figures.”

Another boom. I grabbed him. I didn’t mean to. My hand found his side, the muscle there, the heat, and held on. He went still like I’d burned him.

“Watch it.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just don’t—” He stopped. His breath had changed. I felt it against my hair. “Don’t grab me like that.”

I loosened my fingers. I didn’t take the hand away. I couldn’t. The storm was sitting on the island and my body had decided he was the only solid thing in the room.
We stayed like that.
Time did something stupid. The rain kept coming. His arm stayed. He didn’t pet me. He didn’t say it was okay. He just existed, big and annoyed and warm, and my shaking started to lose. That was the dangerous part. Not the thunder. The minute my chest slowed down and I could feel the rest of him.

He was hard.

It took me a second to understand it because I didn’t want to understand it. The shorts he slept in didn’t hide anything. The length of it was against my hip, then higher when I breathed, a thick, obvious fact he could not talk his way out of. He didn’t move it away. He didn’t joke. For a man who had spent two days calling the shots, he went very quiet.
I was hard too.

That was worse. That was the thing I would have to live with in the morning. Fear and it, mixed, the same shake, the same heat. I was twenty-one and in a bed with my mother’s husband’s son and he thought I was weak and ridiculous and a weak gay boy, and he was holding me because he wanted to sleep, and his cock was doing what bodies do when another body is on them in the dark.

“Aaron.”

“Don’t.”

“I—”

“I said don’t.” His voice had gone rough. Not the bully voice. The other one. The one that sounded like he was angry at himself. “It’s nothing. It’s a reaction. You climb on somebody in the middle of the night, shit happens. Don’t make it a thing.”

“I’m not making it a thing.”

“You’re thinking it. I can hear you thinking it. Ignore it.”

Lightning. His face for a second. Eyes open. Looking at the ceiling, not at me. Jaw locked. The stubble. The chain. Then dark, and the pressure of him, unmistakable.

“I hate storms,” I said, because I had to say something that wasn’t the truth.

“Yeah. I got that already.”

“You don’t have to—”

“If I let go you’re going to start up again and I’ll be awake until four. This is logistics.” His hand, the one on my back, spread a little. Not a caress. A decision. He pulled me in tighter, my mouth against his chest, my knee trapped between his. “You stay on this side. You keep your hips where they are. You go to sleep. In the morning we don’t talk about this.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Diego. We don’t talk about it. You don’t look at me like I did you a favor. I didn’t. I wanted you to shut up.”

“Okay.”

His heart was faster now. I could feel it under my mouth. He smelled stronger this close. Sleep. Sweat. The hot scent of a guy who had been in the sun all day, running, working out. My lips were on his chest whether I wanted them there or not. I didn’t kiss him. I wasn’t that stupid. I just breathed him, and he let me, and the storm kept working the windows.
For a while neither of us spoke.

Then he said, very low, “You’re too skinny.”

“You mentioned.”

“It’s like holding a coat hanger.”

“You can let go.”

He didn’t let go.
His thumb moved once, at the edge of my shirt, a mistake he corrected immediately. I felt it anyway. A scrape of rough skin. The sandpaper of him. I went tight all over and he felt that too, because he swore under his breath and adjusted his hips back an inch, which did nothing except make me more aware of what he was trying not to press into me.

“This is why I didn’t want the king bed.” he said.

“Why?”

“Because of you.”

I didn’t ask what that meant. I could hear what he wanted it to mean. I could hear the other thing under it.
Thunder, farther now. My body still jumped. His arm still answered, automatic, pissed off, reliable. I closed my eyes. I was still afraid but calmer now. He was still hard. The rain was still coming down like it had a job. In the morning there would be breakfast with Adam and my mother and Aaron would put the red Mets hat on and look at me like I was a freak again. I knew that. I knew it the way I knew my own name.

I slept anyway.
I slept on his chest with his chain against my cheek and his breath in my hair and the proof of him against my hip, and the last thing I heard before it took me was Aaron Summers, who hated me, saying to the dark, so quiet I could have invented it:

“Don’t you dare tell anybody I did this. Don’t mention this tomorrow at breakfast, lunch or dinner.”

I wouldn’t.
I lay there and let the big guy hold me through the weather, and I hated him, and I wanted him, and those two things stopped being separate somewhere in the middle of that king bed, with the island shaking and his heart under my mouth, and nothing else happening.
Nothing else was allowed to happen. He was straight, arrogant, mean and the son of my mother’s new husband.

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The Streamer - Chapter 1

The apartment never went quiet anymore.
That was the first thing I learned about Petrov. Not his name on the lease. Not the fact that he’d transferred in from another school and taken the empty room like it had been waiting for him. The noise. Call of Duty at one in the morning. Call of Duty at four. The same barked Russian under his breath, the same chair slamming back every time he died on the game, the same Monster cans stacking up on the desk until the whole place smelled like sugar and sweat and energy drinks.

I used to bring guys home almost every night.
Grindr was easy for me. I don’t do the shy thing. I don’t do the I’m just looking for friends thing. I like sucking dick. I’m good at it. I’ve been good at it since I figured out what my mouth was for, and I don’t get embarrassed saying that in my own house. A lot of guys in this city will come over at midnight if you tell them you know how to take it to the base and you swallow. They used to. Then Petrov moved in and started treating the apartment like a locker room with a Wi-Fi connection, and half the profiles that used to say on my way started saying nah, too loud or your roommate’s still up?

I was sick of it.
I was twenty-two, horny, and going on three days without a cock in my mouth, which for me is a long time, like really long. Petrov was twenty-two too, and he didn’t give a shit. He was the reason I was starving.

He came from another university. Engineering, on paper. He went to class the way some people go to church — rarely, and only when someone made him. His dad was Russian. That was the part you noticed even before he opened his mouth. Compact, beefy, not tall. Maybe five-ten if he stood up straight. Square jaw. Blond hair buzzed almost to the skin. Blue eyes that looked pissed off even when he was winning. He wasn’t hairy the way some of the guys I sucked were hairy. Pink-white skin. A little scruff he hadn’t really grown into yet. Blond fuzz on his thick thighs. Blond in his pits when he lifted his arms. The kind of body that looked like it had been built for hitting people and then got redirected into a chair and a headset.

He lived in a white basketball tank and blue Nike shorts. That was the uniform. The tank was always a little see-through when he sweated. The shorts sat low. He didn’t wear underwear if he could help it. I knew that because I did the laundry once and there was nothing in his basket except those shorts and a pile of white tanks that smelled like a gym bag left in a car.

His room smelled like a locker room on purpose. Jock. Foot. Monster. The sour-sweet of a guy who showers after the gym and then sits in the same clothes for six hours with a pair of balls and too much testosterone. I could smell him from the hallway.

That night I didn’t knock like a roommate.
I walked in.
He was already in the chair, headset half on, one foot on the desk, slamming keys with his whole arm. Sleeveless white jersey. Blue Nikes. The blond hair on his thighs catching the monitor light. A Monster can in the cup holder. The webcam light was still off, which meant I had a window.

“Petrov.”

He didn’t look at me. He killed somebody. Then he looked.

“What, Kay.”

His English was good. The accent sat under it like a bruise. He said my name like it was a joke he hadn’t decided to laugh at yet.

“Your game’s loud,” I said. “Again. And the shooting. And the chair. I’ve had three guys cancel on me this week because they can hear you through the window.”

He paused the game. Not because he cared. Because he wanted to look at me while he said whatever stupid thing was about to come out of his mouth.
He dragged the headset down around his neck and grinned. It was a mean little grin. Bro-dumb. The kind of guy who thinks faggot is just punctuation.

“Ah,” he said. “The fucking pidor is hungry.”

He said it in Russian first. Pidor. Then, like he was being generous, he translated it with his eyebrows.

“You miss your little cocks, Kay? This is a tragedy. Very sad for you.”

“I’m not asking you to be quiet forever,” I said.

“I’m asking you to not scream at a monitor while I’m trying to get my mouth on somebody. This was my sacred place before you arrived. Petrov.”

He laughed. He had a laugh like he’d just won a fight he didn’t have to try at. He leaned back in the chair and the tank pulled up enough that I got a strip of pink stomach, tight, a faint blond line going down.
The room hit me all at once. Sweat. Feet. The damp heat coming off him. His pits were wet. I could see it from the door. Dark circles on the white fabric. The blond hair there was stuck down.
He noticed me noticing. Of course he did. He wasn’t smart. He wasn’t blind.

“You staring at my arms, pidor? Or you staring at something else.” Pidor means faggot, I google it already.

“I’m staring at the reason I haven’t had dick in three days. I told I was gay and that I had constant visits before you decided to move.”

He thought that was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. He slapped the desk once, hard, and the Monster can jumped.

“Blyat. And you say this to my face.”

“I live here,” I said. “I’m not going to pretend I’m a monk because you moved in and started treating the apartment like a Twitch party every fucking night.”

He looked me over the way straight guys look at you when they’ve already decided what you are. Not curious. Inventory. Gay roommate. Cockslut. Problem. Possible solution.
He scratched his stomach. The tank rode higher.

“Live starts in five minutes,” he said. “PetrovTheKillah’s show. Two, three thousand people waiting to watch me ruin losers in Call of Dutty.”

“I know and I honestly don’t care if you’re PetrovTheKillah or the Holy Pope.”

“And you come here to cry about Grindr.”

“I came here to tell you you’re costing me fun and dick.”

He thought about that. You could watch him think. It took a second. He’s kinda slow, I guess. Then the grin came back, wider, stupider, meaner.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, Kay. You have a problem. No cock. I have one—” he grabbed his bulge through the blue shorts, casual, like he was adjusting a phone in his pocket “—joystick. You want it, you can suck it while I play. For my fans. Under the desk. They don’t see you. I don’t lose my account or get flagged for sexual shit. You get what you want. I get—” he shrugged “—a better game, maybe. Quiet mouth on my dick instead of you whining like a girl.”

I should have told him to go fuck himself.
I didn’t.
I looked at the desk. Cheap, black, the kind you buy in a box. Enough space underneath if I folded up. His knees were already spread. The shorts were thin. I could see the shape of him. Heavy. Hanging left. No underwear.

“Are you fucking serious?” I asked tired of his games and bro jokes.

“I am Russian,” he said. “I don’t do jokes about this. We’re serious. You want to be useful, be useful. You don’t want, go to your room and spend the whole night looking for gay cock like a loser. Live is in four minutes. You get under now or you get out, your decision Kay.”

I got under. I seriously hate the guy, he’s so loud and annoying but I was hungry for cock and cum. Starving.
I am not a shy person. I have been on my knees in worse places than a gamer’s smelly bedroom. I have sucked guys who didn’t know my name in club bathrooms. I have sucked guys who talked about their girlfriends while I did it. This was just a straight himbo who smelled like a locker and thought he was doing me a favor.
I was going to do him a favor. Then I was going to make him pay for three days of noise.

The carpet under the desk was disgusting. Pringle crumps. A white sock. The sour of his feet. I folded in between his spread knees and my face was suddenly level with the Nike shorts and the thick blond thighs and the heat coming off his crotch like a radiator. Up close he smelled worse and better. Sweat. Balls. Musky as fuck. A small hint of the clothe’s detergent he didn’t use enough of. A little Monster on his breath when he leaned forward to click something.
He looked down once. Blue eyes. Pink mouth. That square jaw.

“You stay there,” he said. “You don’t make loud explicit noises. You don’t come up. You don’t make me cum, cuz I’m load when I cum. If chat sees a head blowing me, I lose everything. You understand, Kay? My account is valuable, bro, so behave.”

“I understand.”

“Good pidor.”

He said it almost fond. Then he pulled the headset back on, sat up straight, and hit the stream.
The light on the webcam went white.
His voice changed. It always did. Broader. Louder. The PetrovTheKillah voice. A show man.

“Yo. We are live. PetrovTheKillah in the building. Don’t skip the intro, you animals. Tonight we finish this campaign like it owes me money. Drink your Monsters. Don’t be nasty in chat. Okay, be nasty. I don’t care.”

Chat started crawling. I couldn’t see it. I could hear him react.

“Yes, I am late. I was talking to my annoying roommate. No, you don’t get to meet him. He’s busy. He says we’re too loud, like we fucking care!”

A little laugh. His knee bumped my ear.

“Okay. We drop. Don’t tell me how to play. I have two thousand hours. Your mom has two thousand pounds.”

I put my hands on his thighs.
They were thick and hard. Blond hair, damp, warm. He didn’t flinch. He kept talking. I dragged my palms up, slow, under the hem of the shorts, and the muscle jumped once and then went still, like he’d decided the only way to win this was to pretend I was a headset stand.

I pulled the shorts down.
He had to lift his hips a half inch. He did it while he was saying something about a loadout. The shorts caught on his cock and then it came free and hung there in my face. Long. Porn-thick, like thick enough to make my jaw hurt. A downward curve that made it stupidly easy to feed into a mouth. Uncut. The hidden head very pink, already starting to show, a little wet. Veins, blue, purple, green. Blond hair trimmed down, not gone. His balls were the thing, though. Heavy. Low. The kind you feel in your palm before you even get your mouth on them. They sat on the chair between his thighs like they had their own gravity. Musky bro balls.

I didn’t waste time being poetic about it.
I was hungry.
I took the head first. Warm. The skin smelled like him — salt, crotch, that locker-room sweetness, small hint of piss. I got the foreskin back with my lips and sucked, not gentle, and Petrov’s sentence died in the middle.

“—and then we push the— the—”

He coughed.

“Sorry. Monster. These drinks are shit.”

I went deeper, it was my first Russian cock and I was curious.
The curve helped. It slid over my tongue and pointed down my throat like it had been built for this. I don’t gag unless I want to. I wanted him to feel the want. I wanted him to understand that the gay roommate he’d been cockblocking was not some shy kid who’d lick the tip and say thank you. I’m a fucking professional. I took him to the base on the second try and stayed there, nose in the blond hair, the smell of him punching straight into my head.

“Fuck,” he said, very small.

Then, louder, for the mic:
“Okay. Chat. We are entering the mission. Don’t spam. I need— I need to concentrate.”

His thigh was stone under my hand.
I started moving. Slow at first, because I wanted him to last long enough to suffer. Wet. A lot of spit. I let it run down to his balls and used my hand there, rolling them, not squeezing yet. He was already leaking. Straight guys always do when they think they’re just getting a favor. The head swelled against my tongue.

He tried to play.
I could hear the keys. I could hear the mouse. I could hear his breathing change and then get forced back into the PetrovTheKillah cadence.

“We take left. No, I said left, you illiterate— yes, I see the guy. I see him.”

I pulled off, dragged my tongue up the underside, and took a ball into my mouth.
That one got him.
His hips jerked. The chair creaked. Above me, out of sight of the camera, his mouth opened and nothing came out.

“Blyat,” he whispered.
Then, into the mic, too fast:
“Lag. I have lag. Don’t clip that.”

I sucked his balls the way I suck guys who think they’re doing me a charity. Thorough. Wet. I went back to the cock and took it deep again, faster. Revenge. Three days of noise. Three days without my daily dose of cum. I hollowed my cheeks and made it sloppy on purpose, the sound I knew he could hear in his own skull even if the mic didn’t catch it.
He put a hand on my head.

Not petting. Steering. Pushing me down and then, when it got too good, shoving me back so he wouldn’t blow in the first five minutes like a teenager.

“Easy,” he muttered, off-mic. “Easy, Kay. I have to— fuck — I have to talk.”

I looked up.
From under the desk I could see him. The underside of the jaw. The pink flush climbing his neck. The way his mouth went tight when I took him deep and then tried to smile for two thousand people. His eyes kept dropping toward his lap and then snapping back to the monitor like the monitor could save him.
He was already having a bad time holding it.
Good.

“Chat is asking why I am sweating,” he said, and laughed too high. “Because I am a professional athlete of sitting. Because this mission is bullshit. Because I drank four Monsters and my heart is doing a little dance. That is why.”

I took him all the way down and swallowed around him.
The sound he made wasn’t a word.
He covered it by slamming a key and yelling at the game.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS. ARE YOU— okay. Okay. It’s fine. We are fine. Revive. I got you.”

His cock was harder than it had been when I started. Thicker. The pink head was fully out now, wet, leaking onto my tongue every time I pulled back. I could taste him. Not a lot yet. Enough. I used my hand on the spit-slick shaft when I needed air and kept my mouth on the head, sucking in a rhythm that had nothing to do with being nice.
He shoved me off again. His balls were drawn up. He was close already and he hated it.

“Suka,” he hissed, looking down at me. His face was wrecked in a way the camera was not allowed to see. Red. Jaw clenched. Eyes a little wide. “You try to make me lose my account, pidor? You suck like you want me banned.” I guess he needed to turn off the mic to tell me off.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and smiled at him from between his knees.

“You offered.”

“I offered a joystick. Not a— not this.”

“This is a blowjob, Petrov. This is what it feels like when you’re not the loudest thing in the apartment.”

He stared at me. Then he grabbed my hair and put me back on it, not gentle, and his voice went live again like he’d flipped a switch.

“We push. We push now. I don’t care if you are not ready. I am ready.”

He was not ready.
I could feel it in the way his cock jumped every time I took him past the soft part of my throat. I could see it in the way his stomach tightened, that pink strip of skin above the shorts, the muscles jumping. I could hear it in the sentences that started as PetrovTheKillah and ended as a guy getting his soul sucked out under a desk.

“The objective is— the objective is on the— on the roof. We go up. We don’t— we don’t die like last time, please, I am begging—”
Chat, from the way he reacted, was not buying it.

“No, I am not dying. I am breathing. This is called cardio, chat. This is called I am locked in.”

That was when he stopped playing and started surviving.
I could see it from under the desk better than the camera ever would. The monitor painted his throat. His jaw kept locking and unlocking like he was chewing something that wasn’t there. Every time I took him to the base, his mouth fell open and he had to invent a reason to have it open. I was sucking his dick for revenge.

“We— we hold this corner,” he told the stream. The first we was PetrovTheKillah. The second one broke. “We hold this— fuck—”

He slammed it into a cough.

“Sorry. Dry throat. Chat, I am fine. I am so fine I could do this mission with my eyes closed.”

I didn’t let him have eyes closed. I sucked him slow and mean, then fast, then slow again, the way you do when you want a straight boy to understand he’s not in charge of his own dick. His cock was leaking so much it was easy. Slippery. The downward curve kept feeding itself into my throat. I stayed there and swallowed once, just once, and his whole body tried to fold in half.

The chair screamed.
Both of his knees jumped up and then he forced them down, a full-body flinch he turned into leaning toward the keyboard.

“I did not die,” he said, too loud. “That was a tactical lean. You wouldn’t understand.”

His stomach was jumping. I had a hand on it, under the tank, pink skin hot, the muscle kicking every time I hollowed my cheeks. He grabbed my wrist like he was going to throw it off. He didn’t. He just held it there, crushing, while his other hand mashed keys that probably weren’t even the right keys.
A grunt got out of him. Low. Animal. He bit it in half.

“Nnh— no. No, that was the— the explosion. In the game. There are explosions.”

Chat was not stupid. I could hear it in the way he started answering questions nobody in a campaign should be asking.

“Why am I breathing like this? Because I am locked in, that’s why. Why is my face red. Because this map is a crime. Why did I go quiet. Because I am—hnh—because I am clutching.”

I pulled off him just enough to lick the underside, base to the pink head, and look up.
His face was a disaster. Eyebrows up. Eyes wet at the corners. That square jaw trembling. He looked down at me like he wanted to kill me and like he would cum if I smiled.
I smiled.

“Don’t,” he mouthed.

I took him deep anyway.
The sound he made wasn’t language. It was a punched-out groan that started in his chest and tried to become a roar and got strangled into his teeth. His hips punched up off the chair. The headset slipped. For one second his mouth was just open, pink, stupid, and then he remembered two thousand people and turned the whole thing into a yell at the screen.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME. ARE YOU—blyat—ARE YOU PEEKING RIGHT NOW.”

He was not yelling at the peek.
He was yelling because I had his balls in my hand and his cock in my throat and the orgasm was sitting right there, right behind his teeth, and he could not let it out.
He shoved my forehead back. Hard. His cock slapped his stomach, wet, jumping, one pulse away. He sat there with both hands on the desk, arms locked, head down, breathing like he’d been sprinting.

“Raz,” he whispered. “Dva. Tri. Chetyre. Okay. Okay. Okay.”

He didn’t look okay. His thighs were shaking. The blond hair on them was stuck down with sweat. A drop ran from his pit down the inside of the tank. His stomach kept twitching like the flex was trying to happen without him.

“I need a second,” he told the stream, and his voice was wrecked. “I need— water. I need water and I need this helicopter to die.”

He did not get water.
He looked down at me, eyes blown, mouth shiny where he’d been biting it, and he grabbed my hair and put me back on his cock like the water was in my mouth.

“Don’t you fucking make me cum,” he whispered, off-mic, the accent thicker now. “You hear me, fag. I will ruin your dates. I will—nngh—I will throw you out of my room. Just. Hold. Still.” Mic was off again. This has to be the strangest stream yet for his so called “fans”. I was enjoying it so so much.

I didn’t hold still.
I made it sloppier. Louder in his lap, quiet for the mic. Spit on the shaft. Both hands. One on his balls, rolling them, not gentle, the other stroking what I couldn’t keep in my throat. He tried to sit like a pro streamer. Spine straight. Shoulders down. Face neutral.
His body would not do it.

His back arched. Just a little. Then more. The cheap chair went as far as it could and he had to grab the edge of the desk with both hands, knuckles white, while his hips kept making these tiny helpless fucks up into my mouth that he could not stop. Each one came with a sound.

A grunt.
A swallowed roar.
A broken “fuck—” that he tried to turn into “focus.”

“Chat says I sound like I’m getting my soul sucked out.” He laughed and the laugh cracked down the middle. “Very funny. I am getting my— my K/D sucked out. That is different.”

I hummed around him.
His head snapped back. The tendons in his neck stood out. For a second he was just a mouth, open, no words, the kind of face you make when you come — except he wasn’t allowed to come. I was edging him with my professional suckhole. A long, shredded noise tore out of him and he slammed it into the mic as a war cry.

“LET’S GO. LET’S—hh—LET’S GO. PUSH. PUSH. I SAID PUSH.”

He was pushing into my throat.
I could see everything from down here. The way his lips peeled off his teeth. The way his eyes rolled and then fought their way back to the monitor. The blush all the way down his chest, disappearing under the white tank. His nipples were hard through the fabric. His left foot had come off the floor and was hovering, toes clenched, like that would keep the load in his balls.

It wasn’t going to keep the load in his balls.
He yanked me off again. This time he had to do it with both hands, like my mouth was a problem he needed two arms for. He held my head there, two inches from his cock, and the cock just stood between us, jumping, leaking. He stared at it. He stared at me. He looked like he might cry or laugh or come untouched.

“Suka,” he breathed. “Suka blyat. What is wrong with your mouth.”

“Nothing,” I said. “That’s the problem. You’re not used to a proper blowjob, you spend too much time streaming instead of feeding a cocksucker’s mouth.”

He actually whimpered. A short, shocked sound, then rage at himself for making it.
On the stream, he had to cover it.

“That was me. I sat on my headset cable. I am a professional.”

His thick white thighs were shaking so hard the chair rattled. He wiped his face with the tank, which only made it worse — a flash of pink stomach, a gold think crucifix on his chest, the blond line, the wet patch under his arm. He dropped the fabric and tried to sit like a man who was not about to dump a load into his roommate throat.

“Okay. Final stretch. I am calm. I am ice. PetrovTheKillah does not choke.”

I put my mouth on him and choked him anyway.
Not his throat. His control. I went down and stayed down and let my throat work him in little swallows, and his composure left the room. His whole torso twisted to the side, away from the camera, a full contortion, one shoulder up, the other collapsing, like he could hide the orgasm in his armpit. His mouth opened against his own bicep. He bit the tank.
The roar came out through the cotton.

“Mmh—fuck—FUCK—”

He ripped his face away from his own arm and remembered the red light.

“I AM FINE,” he shouted, and it was almost a scream. “I AM SO FINE. THIS LEVEL IS MESSING WITH MY HEAD. I AM GOING TO—”

His cock swelled against my tongue. The tell. The one I know in my sleep. He was there. He was there.
He made a noise I don’t have a word for. Not a grunt. Not a moan. A broken, furious, helpless sound, like a guy getting dragged over a cliff and still trying to give callouts.

“Don’t you—don’t you fucking dare.”

I didn’t come off.
He had to choose.
He chose the game. He chose the win. He chose to roar at the screen with his whole chest because if he didn’t put the sound somewhere the microphone would know exactly what it was.

“I’M GONNA FUCKING WIN THIS SHIT, BROS.”

The objective went. The flex started — both arms, tank stretching, the himbo victory pose — and his cock kicked so hard in my throat I felt it in my own neck. He came like he’d been holding it with his entire body. Pulse after pulse, thick, a lot of it, his hips locked, his head thrown back out of frame, the flex shaking because his arms weren’t flexing anymore, they were just seized. A last ruined groan ripped out of him and he turned it, barely, into a laugh for the fans.

“We did it. We—hh—we did it. I told you. Built different.”

He wasn’t built different.
He was sitting in a wet chair with his shorts around his thighs and his roommate’s mouth still on him, trying to remember how to be his persona on a live stream.
His hands were still in my hair.
They weren’t pushing me off.
Not yet.
He held it until the last twitch left him. Then he reached down, out of the shot, and pushed my forehead off his dick with two fingers. Not mean. Done. His cock lay wet against his thigh, pink, used, sloppy. I stayed under the desk and licked the corner of my mouth and looked up at him.

He looked down.
For a second there was no PetrovTheKillah. There was just a flushed American-Russian himbo with his shorts around his thighs and his roommate on the floor.
He pointed at the camera, then at his own face, then mouthed, very clearly:
Stay.

He pulled the shorts up. Winced. Sat forward like a man who had not just come his brains out.

“Okay. I am going to piss and get another Monster. Don’t go anywhere. We run it back. PetrovTheKillah does not end on one win.”

The webcam light stayed on, I guess he was using some screensaver or something. I never used Twitch in my life. This was the closest I was from watching a live game stream.
He muted, I think. Or he didn’t. He shoved the chair back anyway, enough that I had to crawl out from under so he didn’t run me over. He stood. The tank was soaked at the pits. The roam was smelling of college locker rooms. His thighs were wet from my spit. He looked at me standing there with my mouth shiny and he shook his head once, like he could not believe he’d done it and like he was already going to do it again.

“You,” he said, quiet. “You are a problem.”

“You’re louder when you come than when you die,” I said.

He almost smiled. Then he remembered the red light.

“Next game,” he muttered. “You wait in the hall until I say. If you make me lose this account I will throw your Grindr out the window.”

“You’re going to need me if you keep screaming at that campaign.”

“Blyat,” he said, and it sounded like a yes.
He grabbed a Monster from the floor, cracked it, and sat back down like nothing had happened. The PetrovTheKillah voice came back on, a little wrecked around the edges.

“I am back bros. I am hydrated and energized. I am unstoppable. Chat, stop asking if I am okay. I have never been better.”

I went to the door.
I could still taste him.
In the hallway the apartment was the same apartment. His noise. My room. Three days of nothing, solved in twenty minutes under a desk.

I didn’t feel used. I felt my call of duty mission was accomplished and I don’t even game. I genuinely hate the stupid game ads that interrupt my conversations on Grindr.
I felt like I was going to be under that desk again before the week was over. I just unlocked a new skin on PetrovTheKillah, I was 100% sure.
And I was already thinking about how much worse I could make it for him the next time the light went red.

🔞 All characters are consenting adults 🔞

Chapter 1

It was supposed to be a father-son bounding weekend. He made me call him Sergeant before the jeep even left the driveway.

“From this second on,” he said, one hand on the wheel, the other checking the side mirror like we were rolling out on a mission, “you don’t say Dad. You don’t say John. You say Sergeant. You understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

John Peterson was forty-six, 6’2, athletic in the way men stay athletic after twenty years of being told to be. Super short military cut grey head. Thick neck. A voice that sat low in his chest even when he was just asking if I’d locked the front door. He still wore the uniform for the drive. Camo blouse, boots, belt. The divorced-dad version of a man who thought a weekend in the woods could fix whatever my mother had done to me.

I was twenty. Skinny. Glasses. Blond hair with the pink I’d put in two weeks ago and refused to take out. Black nail polish my mother said was just a phase and my father had looked at once, long enough to make a sound in his throat, and then not mentioned until now.
He mentioned it at the first red light.

“Those come off before we make camp.”

“Sergeant—”

“I didn’t ask. I told you. You’re not painting your nails in my truck and you’re not painting them in my woods. You want to do that shit, you do it at your mother’s.”

I picked at my thumb in my lap. The polish was already chipped. I didn’t say I liked it. I didn’t say I liked a lot of things he wasn’t going to want to hear. I’d never had a girlfriend. I’d never told either of them I was gay. I liked pop music. I liked men who looked like him. That last part I kept so far down it only came up when I was alone.

The jeep smelled like canvas and his aftershave and the coffee he’d poured into a metal thermos. He drove like he did everything else. No extra words. Eyes on the road. When a song I liked came on the radio he changed it without asking.

“You sit up,” he said, twenty minutes in. “You’re slouching like your spine’s optional. That’s your mother. Soft house. Soft rules. Soft kid. Not this weekend.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He glanced at me. The look went from the pink in my hair to the glasses to the way my hoodie hung off my shoulders.

“You eat?”

“This morning.”

“What.”

“Toast.”

He shook his head once.

“We’ll fix that too.”

The campground wasn’t a campground. It was a fire road and a clearing he knew from years ago, before the divorce, before I was old enough for him to decide I needed this. He backed the jeep in, killed the engine, and was out of the vehicle before I’d undone my seatbelt.

“Out. Now. You carry the tent. I carry the rest. You drop it, you pick it up. You complain, we add laps.”

I carried the tent.
It was heavier than it looked. My arms started shaking halfway to the flat spot he’d already chosen with his eyes. He watched me do it. Didn’t help. When I set it down too hard he made me pick it up and set it down again.

“Controlled. You’re not throwing my gear.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

We put the tent up in silence except for his corrections. Stake that straighter. Pull that line. Don’t stand there looking at your phone. I didn’t have service anyway. He made me collect wood. He made me fill the water jugs from the stream. He made me do twenty push-ups on the pine needles when I muttered something about my shoulders.
I made it to fourteen.

He crouched next to my head.
“Six more. I didn’t say you could stop. Your mother lets you stop. I don’t.”

I did six more. They were ugly. My glasses slipped. A piece of bark dug into my palm. When I finished he said, “On your feet,” and I stood there with my arms dead and my face hot and something in my stomach that wasn’t just embarrassment.

It was him. The size of him. The way the uniform pulled across his chest when he stood up. The hair at the collar. The voice. I’d spent years looking at men like that on my phone with the door locked. Now one of them was my father, two feet away, telling me I was soft.

He took his blouse off in the afternoon heat. Undershirt. Dark hair on his chest where the neck opened. Sweat. He didn’t make a show of it. He didn’t have to. I looked too long and he caught it.

“Eyes on the work, Cass.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“You got a staring problem.”

“No, Sergeant.”

“Then stop.”

I stopped. Or I tried to.

Near four he walked off toward the trees without saying where. I thought he was checking the perimeter. I followed far enough to not get yelled at for wandering and then I saw him.

He was pissing against a pine.
Boots planted. One hand on the trunk. The other holding himself. I should have turned around. I didn’t. The sound of it hit the bark and the dirt and I stood there like an idiot with my mouth dry, looking at the thing in his hand.
It wasn’t just that it was big. It was the way he held it. Casual. Heavy. Unashamed. A thick, mature cock that made every boy I’d ever tried not to think about look like a joke. He shook it once, tucked it away, and turned.
He saw me.
For a second neither of us moved.

“You lost?” he said.

“I thought— I was getting more wood.”

“Wood’s the other way.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He walked back toward me. The uniform pants were still half-settled. He stopped close enough that I had to look up.

“You were watching me take a leak.”

I didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t make it worse.

“You say nothing, that means yes.” His voice dropped. “A man looks another man in the eye. He doesn’t stand in the trees like a sneak. You understand me?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Then get the wood. And next time you need to look at something, you ask. You don’t hide.”

I got the wood.
My hands were shaking for a reason that had nothing to do with the push-ups.

We ate late. He cooked over the fire like he’d done it a hundred times. I burned my finger on a pan and he didn’t fuss. He told me to run it under the stream and come back. When I sat down again he was across the fire, undershirt damp, elbows on his knees, looking at me the way he looked at a problem.

“Your mother said you don’t date.”

I poked at the beans.

“I don’t.”

“Boys your age have girls. Or they try. You don’t try.”

“I just— I don’t.”

“That’s not an answer.” He drank from the thermos. Coffee, still. He hadn’t brought beer. “She thinks you’re sensitive. I think you’re hiding. There’s a difference.”

The fire popped. Somewhere in the dark a bird went off and then stopped.

“I’m not hiding,” I said, which was a lie.

“You paint your nails. You put pink in your hair. You don’t lift. You don’t care about NFL. You don’t run. You look at me today like you’ve never seen a man take his shirt off.” He leaned forward. “I’m not your mother. I don’t do the soft version. This weekend you learn what a man is. You don’t have to like it. You have to do it.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He watched me for a long time.

“You sleep in the tent. I sleep in the tent. You snore, I kick you. You get up to piss, you say so. No wandering off in the dark. Clear?”

“Clear, Sergeant.”

I lay on my side after he put the fire down, as far from him as the tent allowed, which wasn’t far. He took up space even on his back. I could hear him breathe. I could smell the day on him. I stared at the nylon and thought about him against the tree and hated myself for how easy it was to see it again.

Morning was worse.
He had me up before the sun. Water on my face from the jug. No coffee for me until the work was done. He put me through a version of PT that would have been a joke to anyone in his unit and was not a joke to me. Squats. More push-ups. A run down the fire road that ended with me bent over, glasses fogged, spit hanging off my lip.
He stood there in the undershirt, barely winded.

“Again.”

“Sergeant, I can’t—”

“You can. You just never had to. Move.”

I moved.
By midday I was sunburned on my neck and my legs were useless. He had me sit on a stump while he checked the line on the tent. I watched the muscle in his back. I watched the way his belt sat. I watched his hands. When he turned I looked at the dirt.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what.”

“Looking at me like that.”

I didn’t answer.
He was quiet for a second. Then he said, “Get up. Down to the water.”

The stream was cold enough to hurt. He told me to wash. I went in in my shorts and hissed when it hit my stomach. He stood on the bank in the uniform pants and the undershirt and watched me fail at being fine.

“All the way in.”

I went all the way in. The pink in my hair went dark. My nails looked stupid against the wet rock. When I came out I was shaking.
He pulled the undershirt over his head.
I stopped walking.

John Peterson without the shirt was worse than John Peterson pissing against a tree. Hairy chest. Thick. The kind of body that had been used. A line of hair down his stomach that disappeared into the belt. He unbuckled it like I wasn’t there, then looked up and saw that I was.

He didn’t cover himself.
He didn’t tell me to turn around.
He took the pants down to wash and I saw it again, softer now, still heavy, hanging against his thigh, and my own body gave me away before I could do anything about it. The shorts were wet. They didn’t hide anything.

He saw that too.
The clearing went very still.

“So that’s what this is,” he said.

I wanted the water to take me.

“Sergeant—”

“Don’t.” He stepped out of the pants the rest of the way, stood there naked on the bank like the woods belonged to him, and pointed at the ground in front of him. “You come here.”

I went. Wet. Cold. Hard. Humiliated.
He didn’t touch me. He didn’t let me touch him. He just stood there, this huge military man with his cock in the open air, and looked down at his son like he was deciding whether to end the weekend or turn it into something else.

“You been staring since the tree,” he said.
“Don’t lie. I don’t like liars.”

“I wasn’t—” I lied.

“You were. You watched me piss. You watched me in the tent. You watched me just now. And now you’re standing here with a hard-on in front of your father.” His voice stayed even. That was the worst part. “Your mother would cry. I don’t cry. I deal with the problem.”

He reached down and took himself in his hand.
Not to offer it. To show it.

He was getting hard while he talked. I watched it happen and couldn’t look away. It thickened in his fist, lifted, the same heavy cock from the tree, except now it was filling because I was there, because I’d been caught, because his soft pink-haired kid was shaking in wet shorts two feet away.

“This is a man,” he said. “This is what you keep looking at. You wanted to see it. Now you see it.”

He stroked once. Slow. Not for pleasure, or not only. For the lesson.

“You don’t touch. You don’t come closer. You keep your hands where they are. You look because I told you to look. That’s an order.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Louder.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He kept his hand on it. He was fully hard now. Bigger than I had imagined even after the tree. The kind of cock that explained why he walked like he did. Why the uniform fit the way it did. Why every man I’d ever wanted looked like a copy of this one.

“You gay?” he asked.

The woods were too quiet.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He nodded once, like he’d already known and had just been waiting for me to say it in his woods, under his rules.

“That’s why the nails. That’s why you never brought a girl home. That’s why you look at me like I’m a Greek god.” He squeezed himself, not shy about it. “I’m not a porn magazine. I’m your father. And you’re going to stand there until I decide we’re done looking.”

I stood there.
Water ran down my legs. My glasses were spotted. My black nails were fists at my sides because he’d said hands where they are. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just held his cock and made me look at it, the two of us in a clearing that suddenly felt a lot smaller than the forest around it.

“A real man isn’t ashamed of his body,” he said. “He doesn’t hide it. He doesn’t sneak around trees to get a look. If he’s going to look, he looks when he’s told. You understand me?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“You want to be a man this weekend, you start by doing what you’re told. You don’t get to have this. You don’t get to put your hands on it. You look. You learn. Then you get dressed and you don’t mention it at the fire.”

He let go.
It stayed hard. He didn’t tuck it away immediately. He let me see that too, the fact that he could stand there like that and still be in charge of the minute.
Then he pulled the pants back on, slow, and the undershirt, and the belt.

“Turn around. Get your clothes. We still have a hike.”

I turned around.
Behind me I heard him buckle the belt. I heard him pick up the blouse. I heard him say, almost to himself, “Soft kid. Jesus Christ.”

I got dressed with my back to him. My hands didn’t work right. When I turned he was already moving up the bank, uniform in place, Sergeant again, like he hadn’t just shown his son his cock and gotten hard doing it.
He didn’t look at me when I caught up.

“You stay on my left. You keep up. You fall behind, we do the run again.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

We walked.
The woods went back to being woods. Birds. Water. His boots on the dirt. My smaller ones trying to match. The thing he’d shown me was under the uniform again and I could still see it every time I blinked.

He spoke once, without turning his head.
“Tonight you sleep in the tent same as last night. You keep to your side. You don’t wander. Tomorrow we do this again if I decide we need to. Until then you don’t say a word about what you saw. Clear?”

“Clear, Sergeant.”

He nodded.
The trail bent. The jeep was a long way behind us. My father was a wall of camo and heat and that voice, and I followed him with my mouth dry and my secret out in the open and nothing touched but everything changed.

The bounding weekend wasn’t over.
He hadn’t said it was.

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song suggestion while reading: Guè - Salvador Dalì

Chapter 1

My name is Kyle. I’m eighteen. Shy. Distracted. I like boys and I have no idea how to talk to them. I’m a virgin in every way that counts. I’ve never kissed anyone. I’ve never even held a guy’s hand on purpose. Most days I talk more to a phone screen than to a person.

My parents own three restaurants in town and they’re almost never home. Breakfast, lunch, dinner — they’re always somewhere between the kitchen and the books. My job until college is the social media. Photos of plates. Captions. The Facebook page. The house is too big for one person and too quiet when they’re gone. In the summer it feels worse. The pool sits used only by me. The garden grows faster than anyone has time to care about it. I should not complain, I know I’m privileged.

That’s how Gianluca ended up in the annex.
Twenty-one. Italian. Exchange student for a few months at the college across town. We were his host family. The little building behind the pool used to be storage. My dad had it turned into a room with a bathroom the month before he arrived. In exchange, Gianluca would do the garden and the pool.
The first time I saw him I forgot how to breathe.

He came up the driveway with one suitcase and a leather bag that looked older than I was. 5’11. Black hair combed back in that old-school way, like he’d walked out of a movie about men who settled things in back rooms with their own hands. Thick eyebrows. A big Italian nose. Dark stubble even at noon. A gold chain. A gold watch. He shook my father’s hand like they were already in business and then looked at me and said, “So you are Kyle,” with an accent so heavy it made my name sound like something else.

He dressed better than any American guy I knew. Linen shirts. Slim pants. Shoes you don’t wear to mow a lawn unless you’re him. Under the shirts there was dark hair on his chest, his arms, his legs. He looked like the son of a classic mafioso. I hated how much I liked that.

The first night he ate with us, he talked with his hands and called my mother signora and asked my father about wine like he was twenty years older than he was. I barely said a word. He noticed. After dinner he found me in the kitchen rinsing plates and said, “You are very quiet, Kyle. In Italy, quiet boys are thinking too much.” Then he smiled and left me standing there with wet hands.

By the third day I was watching him from the kitchen window.
He worked in the heat like it didn’t touch him. Shirt off by ten in the morning. Gold chain bouncing against his chest every time he bent over. Sweat running down the hair on his stomach. White socks pulled up to his calves. Dirty Adidas. Shorts that sat too low. He’d catch me looking and flex on purpose, laughing, that cocky little sound in the back of his throat.

“Eh, Kyle. You like the show, no?”

I’d pretend I was answering a comment on Facebook.
Thursday I brought him orange juice. I told myself it was polite. He took the glass, drank half of it in one go, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sweat was running down his neck into the gold chain. He looked at me over the glass.
“You come all this way just for hand me a drink? Or you come to see me closer?”

“Juice…” I said.

“Okay. Juice.” He handed the glass back. His fingers touched mine. He didn’t move them right away. “Tomorrow you bring two. I get thirsty when somebody watches me work.”

I was sure he was straight. That same Thursday night I saw him leave with the blonde girl from next door. Madison. She had a laugh you could hear from the driveway. He had his hand on her back and that same gold watch flashing in the porch light. They didn’t come back until late. I heard the annex door. I heard him laugh. I told myself that was the end of whatever stupid thing I was doing in my head.

It wasn’t.
Friday I sat at the window longer than I needed to. He trimmed the hedges along the pool. Every time he lifted the clippers the muscle in his arm jumped and the chain moved. He knew I was there. He made a point of stretching after, both arms over his head, chest out, grinning toward the glass.

“Come outside,” he called. “The house is too empty. You look like a ghost in there.”

I didn’t go outside. I sat there until the tablet went dark and my neck hurt from not blinking.

Saturday the house was empty. My parents had a private event at the downtown place and wouldn’t be back until late. The sun was brutal. The kind of summer that makes the air feel wet. I took a towel, the iPad, and a fantasy book I was reading, and went to the pool because staying inside felt worse.

Gianluca was already there.
Short yellow swim trunks. White socks still pulled up. Dirty white Adidas. No shirt. The gold chain wet against his chest. Sweat running down the dark hair on his stomach. He was skimming the water like it was nothing, humming something in Italian under his breath.
I sat on the lounge chair and unlocked the tablet. Pretended to work.
He noticed immediately.

“You always work, Kyle. Always the phone. Always the restaurants. You never swim?”

“I’m working.”

He laughed. Came closer. Stood at the foot of the chair so I had to look up at him. From that angle he was worse. The trunks sat low. The hair on his thighs was dark and damp. The gold watch caught the sun.

“You look at me a lot,” he said. Not accusing. Amused. “Every day. From the window. From here. You think I don’t see?”

My face went hot.

“I don’t—”

“Yes you do.” He flexed once, lazy, just to be an asshole. The muscle in his arm jumped. “Is okay. In Italy, boys look. Is normal. You Americans are… how you say… shy. Always ashamed of what they want.”

I looked back at the iPad. The words on the screen meant nothing.
Gianluca sat on the edge of my chair like he owned it. Close enough that I could smell him. Intense sweat. Grass. Something warm and expensive underneath, like cologne that had given up hours ago.

“You have girlfriend?” he asked in his broken English.

“No.”

“boyfriend?”

I froze.
He grinned. Slow. Delighted.

“Ah. I think so. You look at me like that. Not like Madison look at me. Different.”

“I don’t look at you like anything.”

“Kyle.” He said my name like it was funny. “You are red. Is cute. Tell me. You kiss a girl already?”

I shook my head.

“A boy?”

Another head shake.
Gianluca’s eyebrows went up. He whistled, low.

“Virgin. Completely. Eighteen and nothing.”

He leaned in a little. The gold chain swung between us. “That is dangerous, no? A house this big. Nobody home. And you watching the Italian boy sweat in the garden every morning.”

I couldn’t find a sentence.
He reached out and tapped the tablet with one finger.

“Close this. You are not working. You are hiding.”

I closed it.
The pool was being louder than me, the water slapped the tiles. Gianluca’s knee was almost touching mine. Up close I could see the sweat in the hollow of his throat and the way the hair on his chest was flattened in wet lines.

“You want to ask me something,” he said. “I see it in your face. Ask.”

“I don’t..”

“Ask.”

I swallowed.

“Are you with my neighbor Madison?” I asked the first thing that came to my mind.

He laughed, loud, like I’d said something stupid.

“Madison is fun. She like the accent. She like the gold chain. She don’t like when I talk too much. You… you listen at dinner. Even when you pretend you don’t.” He tilted his head. “You want to know if I like boys too.”

I didn’t answer.

“I like who I like,” he said, after a second. “When I want something, I take it. Is simpler. You Americans make everything a problem.” He looked at my mouth. “You make this a problem already. I can see it.”

Gianluca stood up. The sun hit the sweat on his chest and made it shine. He stretched, slow, showing off on purpose, then looked down at me.

“Come. Help me with the filter. Since you watch so much, you can work a little.”

I followed him around the side of the pool like an idiot. The concrete was hot under my feet. He crouched by the pump, trunks riding up, socks still on, and I hated how horny I was just from standing there next to him. I could see the dark hair on the back of his thighs. I could see the gold watch when he reached into the water.

He glanced back at me.

“You are shaking.”

“It’s too hot.”

“Is not the sun.” He stood. Stepped into my space. One hand came up and flicked the gold chain against his own chest, like he wanted me to look at it. “You never touch a man.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

“You want to.”

I should have said no. I should have gone inside. I should have opened Facebook and posted a photo of the lunch special.
I nodded.

Gianluca’s smile changed. Less teasing. Hungrier.

“Then you do it here. In the sun. Where you always watch me.” He took my wrist and put my hand on his chest, over the hair, over the sweat, over the chain. “See? Is just a man’s body. You don’t die.”

He was burning. The hair was spiky since he trimmed a little. His heart was going faster than his voice.
He kept my hand there longer than he needed to.

“You feel that? I work three hours already. I smell like a horse. You still want it. That tells me everything, girls are not like that. They always complain.”

He moved my hand down. Over his stomach. The wet trail of hair. To the waistband of the trunks.

“You want this, Kyle? Say it. In English. I want to hear the shy American boy say it.”

“I want it.”

“What.”

“I want to suck you.”

Gianluca made a pleased sound, almost a laugh.

“Bravo, ragazzo. On your knees. Here. The tiles are hot, I know. You deal with it. In Italy we call frocio to boys like you. Search the word on your iPad, you’ll understand.”

I went down without thinking twice.
The concrete burned my knees. From there he was enormous — the gold watch, the socks, the dirty Adidas, the bulge already pushing the front of the trunks. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and shoved them down just enough.
His cock came out heavy. Long. Curved a little downward. Veiny just like his forearms. Already wet at the tip. A musky scent invading my nostrils.

“Cazzo,” he muttered, looking down at himself and then at me. “You see? Not small. You sure, virgin boy?”

I nodded.

“Open the mouth. Apri.”

I opened. I didn’t understand the words he was saying in Italian, but I was not dumb to not understand the context.
The first taste was salty and skin and the heat of the afternoon. I took the head and he exhaled hard through his nose, one hand landing in my hair.

“Così. Slow. You never do this, I know. Use the tongue. Yes. Like that. Around the head. Don’t rush. I want to feel you learn.”

It was easier than I thought it would be. Natural, almost. My jaw stretched and I didn’t panic. I took more. The curve of him made it easier and deeper than I expected. I gagged once, barely, and Gianluca laughed.

“Eh. Almost nothing. You are born for this, Kyle. Look at you. First time and already you take it.”

He started moving. Not gentle. Not cruel yet. Just sure. Using my mouth like he’d already decided I could take it. The gold chain swung every time his hips rolled. Sweat dropped from his chest onto my forehead.

“Succhia, Frocio. Suck. Don’t be shy now. You watch me all week from that window. Now you have it. Show me what you were thinking.”

I sucked. I used my hand on what I couldn’t fit. He was long enough that I had to work for it. Every time I went deeper he swore in Italian, low and pleased.

“Cazzo, che caldo. Your mouth is better than Madison. Don’t tell her.” He laughed at his own joke. “She don’t go this deep anyway. Not half. She is… how you say… polite. You are not polite. You are hungry, ragazzo.”

The sun was brutal on my back. My knees hurt. I didn’t care, all I wanted is to absorb him, to retain that memory for the rest of my life. I could smell the garden on him, the cut grass, the sweat from hours of work. I looked up. He was watching me like I was something he’d won.

“Guardami. Eyes on me. I want to see the shy boy with my cazzo in his mouth.”

I kept looking.
He got rougher. Both hands in my brown hair now. Short, deep thrusts that made me wet around him. Spit ran down my chin and onto the tiles. He didn’t stop. He talked the whole time, mixing English and Italian like he couldn’t be bothered to pick one.

“Bravo. Che bravo ragazzo. Use the hand too. Yes. Like that. You stroke what you cannot swallow. I teach you. In Italy we don’t waste a mouth like this.”

I made a sound around him and he grinned.

“You like when I talk. I see it. Okay. I talk.” He pushed deeper and held me there for a second. “This is mine now, Kyle. You live in this house. I work this garden. When I want this, you come. Capito?”

I couldn’t answer. I nodded as much as his hands would let me.
He pulled back enough for me to breathe and then went in again, slower this time, watching my face.

“You barely choke. Incredible. A virgin who sucks like he has been practicing his whole life. Maybe you have. All those hours at the window.”

He sped up. The wet sounds were loud in the open air. Anyone coming up the driveway would have heard it. He didn’t seem to care. The gold watch kept flashing at the edge of my vision. His socks were still on. The Adidas were still dirty from the garden. It made it worse. More real. Like he hadn’t even bothered to become someone else for this.

“Don’t close the teeth. Soft. Yes. Cazzo. That’s it. Take it. Take more.”

I took more.
My jaw ached. My eyes watered. He wiped the corner of my mouth with his thumb like it was nothing and then put the thumb in my mouth too, just for a second, laughing.

“Look at this. The American boy who cannot talk to anyone is on his knees for a real Italian man. Your parents would kick me out. I like that. Danger.”

He started using my throat properly then. Short, deep, sure. Every time he bottomed out I made a wet sound and he swore. The chain hit my forehead. Sweat ran down his stomach and onto my lips.

“Sto arrivando vicino. You feel it get harder? Don’t pull away. You stay. You swallow when I say. Inghiotti. Everything. I work in this heat, you take what I give.”

I stayed.
His breathing changed. The cocky smile slipped. His hips got less careful. One hand tightened in my hair until it burned.

“Sto per venire. Don’t you dare stop, frocio. Show me the shy Kyle can finish what he started.”

He held my head and came in my mouth with a long, broken “cazzo” that bounced off the water. Thick. Hot. A lot. I swallowed because he’d told me to. I kept swallowing until he was done twitching on my tongue. It was sweet and bitter at the same time. I never tasted nothing similar. I was addicted at the first drop. Some of it still escaped the corner of my mouth. He watched that too.
He stayed there a second, still in my mouth, one hand in my hair, the other on his own chest like he needed to remember how to breathe.

Then he pulled out.
I stayed on my knees on the hot tiles, lips wet, the taste of him all the way down my throat. Gianluca tucked himself back into the trunks, adjusted the gold chain, and looked at me like nothing in his life had ever been a problem.

“Good boy,” he said. Soft. Still cocky. “You did well. Much better than I thought.”

He reached down and wiped my chin with his thumb, then flicked the gold chain again, like he wanted me to remember it.

“Tomorrow I do the hedges. You come watch again. Maybe I let you do it twice. Maybe I make you wait. We see.”

He picked up the skimmer like the last fifteen minutes hadn’t happened and went back to the water. The socks. The dirty sneakers. The sun on his back.
I sat there on the burning tiles with my heart trying to leave my body, already knowing I was going to be at that window again in the morning.
And that I was going to say yes to whatever the Italian boy asked me to do.

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I was half-asleep on the couch when the front door slammed so hard the windows rattled.

Jordan was home. My older brother. I’m 20 and he’s 27.

I sat up and listened. Heavy footsteps across the kitchen. Keys thrown on the counter. Then a long string of “fuckin’ bitch” under his breath. Our parents had left that morning for their anniversary trip, so the house was empty except for the two of us. Usually that meant he stayed out or brought some girls back with him. Tonight it just meant he was in a bad mood.

He walked into the living room still wearing the same black Pantera shirt he’d left in, jeans hanging low, ball cap pulled down over the receding hairline he refuses to admit exists. His beard looked even thicker under the hallway light. He smelled like the gun shop where he works and something muskier—pure sweat that hadn’t been washed off all day.

Jordan was hard to miss. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a thick, solid build that made him look even bigger in the cramped hallway. His heavy beard covered most of his jaw, and his faded black band T-shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders. He always wore that damn baseball cap low over his head, like he could somehow hide the thinning hair underneath it. Everything about him looked rough around the edges—worn jeans, dirty sneakers, broad hands, and that permanently annoyed expression that made him seem like he was one bad comment away from starting an argument.

He dropped onto the opposite end of the couch and stared at the blank TV.

“You wouldn’t fuckin’ believe this shit,” he muttered.

I waited.

“Took this chick out. Decent looking, works at the tattoo place on 5th. Dinner was fine, fucking expensive though. We get back to her place, I’m ready to go, and she takes one look at my dick and freezes. Straight up tells me she can’t handle it. Says it’s too thick, too long, and I ‘smell like I just worked a double.’
Kicked me out before I even got my jeans all the way off. Can you believe that? A grown-ass woman scared of a regular cock and some men scent. Un-fucking-believable!”

I glanced at the thick outline already visible in his jeans. There was nothing “regular” about it and we both knew it. The slight curve, the heavy weight of it—every girl he’d ever been with either complained or quit halfway through. He just never admitted it out loud.
I kept my voice casual.

“That sucks.”

Jordan let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Yeah. Sucks for me. I’m sitting here with blue balls and a hard-on that won’t quit because some bitch couldn’t take it.”

He rubbed a hand over his face, then down his beard.
That’s when I said it.

“I could… help. If you want.”

The words hung in the air.
Jordan turned his head slowly and looked at me like I’d grown a second head.

“Help how?”

I swallowed. My pulse was already loud in my ears.

“You know… with my mouth. If you need to get off.”

For a second he just stared. Then his face twisted.

“The fuck did you just say?”

“I’m serious. You’re home, you’re pissed, you’re hard. I can take care of it.”

Jordan stood up so fast the couch shifted.

“I’m not a fuckin’ faggot, Keith. And you’re not putting your queer mouth anywhere near my dick. I don’t care how blue my balls are. I’d rather jerk off than let my little gay brother suck me off like some desperate hole.”

He shook his head, disgusted, and started toward the hallway.

“Jesus Christ. Only you would offer some shit like that to your big brother. Absolutely crazy.”

His bedroom door slammed. Two seconds later porn started blasting through the wall—loud, wet, aggressive. The kind he always put on when our parents are not home and he was too angry and too horny to be quiet about it.

I sat there on the couch with my heart hammering, already half-hard just from the rejection. That was pure Jordan. Rough, rude, calling me names the same way he had since we were kids. And somehow it only made the fantasy worse. I always dreamed of serving my own big brother…

I went to my bedroom to try to sleep and forget the harsh rejection. Five minutes later my door opened without a knock.
Jordan stood in the doorway, jeans shoved down just enough, that thick, curved cock already out and in his fist. It looked even bigger than I imagined—heavy, veiny, the head flushed and shiny. He was stroking it slow, eyes locked on me.

“Change of plans,” he said, voice low. “You still offering?”

I nodded once.
He stepped inside and kicked the door shut.

“Here’s how this goes. I don’t kiss. I don’t touch your dick. I don’t hold your hand after. You get on your knees, open your mouth, and take it the way I want. Facefuck. Skullfuck. Whatever I feel like. You gag, you spit, you deal with it. You try to pull off before I’m done and I’m walking out and I will never give you another chance. Clear?”

“Yes, sir. Clear.”

“Aight, let’s do this shit and see how this goes.”

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked me off the bed onto the floor. My knees hit the carpet hard. Up close the smell of him was stronger—sweat, metal from the shop, pure masculine toxins. I opened my mouth without being told.

Jordan pushed the thick head past my lips and kept going until the curve forced its way into my throat.
I gagged immediately, like… hard.

Spit flooded around the shaft and spilled down my chin. He didn’t ease up. Both hands locked on the sides of my head and he started thrusting—short, hard strokes that turned my throat into a sleeve. Every time he bottomed out I made those wet, broken choking sounds. Tears blurred my vision. My nose was buried in his thick dark bush of pubes.

“Fuck yeah,” he muttered. “That’s better than any of those stuck-up bitches. Look at you already drooling all over it.”

He pulled back just enough for me to drag in a wet breath, then slammed forward again.

“Wanna quit, fag?” He asked me arrogantly.

I shook my head, saying no, unable to speak.
The rhythm stayed brutal. Spit stringed from my lips to the shaft and soaked the lower part of his heavy metal t-shirt. I was so horny that I was shaking with adrenaline.
Jordan kept talking the whole time, voice mean and low.

“Took that bitch out for steaks and she still couldn’t handle it. Said it was too thick. Said I smelled. You don’t give a fuck how I smell, do you, faggot? You’re just happy to get big dick in your mouth.”

I tried to nod but he was already thrusting deeper, using my skull like a toy. The wet choking sounds filled the room. My hands rested on his thick thighs, feeling the muscle jump every time he drove in. His jeans were still half on, the open fly framing everything. The ball cap stayed pulled low the entire time.

He switched angles, tilting my head back farther so the curve of his cock could punch even deeper. My throat convulsed around him. More spit poured out, dripping onto the carpet. I was a complete mess—eyes streaming, nose running, chin shiny—and he only went harder for it.

“Take it. Fucking take it. This is what you wanted when you offered, right? To be my personal throat for the night? You said you would help me, so this what I need.”

I couldn’t answer. All I could do was stay open and let him use me.
Jordan’s breathing got heavier. His grip in my hair tightened until it burned. The thrusts turned shorter, deeper, more brutal. He was chasing the orgasm the girl had denied him. Every time the thick head battered the back of my throat I made those broken, wet sounds that only made him groan louder.

“Gonna fill this faggot throat,” he growled. “Gonna pump it so deep you’ll taste it for days when you burp . Don’t you fucking pull off.”

I didn’t.
When he came it was with a “grrr”, a grunt, animal noise and three final hard thrusts that buried him to the root. Thick pulses of cum shot straight down my throat. I swallowed everything, I had no other option. He held me there through every spurt, hips twitching, until the last drop was out.

Only then did he pull free.
I stayed on my knees, gasping, face covered in the mess he’d left. Jordan stood over me and stroked the last few drops onto my tongue like it was nothing, like he was just shaking his cock after pissing at a urinal.

He tucked himself back into his jeans without a word, adjusted the ball cap, and looked down at me one more time.

“Don’t forget I did you a favor, fag. Don’t get used to this shit. I live for tits and wet, shaved pussy. This was just a desperate man’s move.”

Then he walked out, leaving my door open and the sound of his porn still playing down the hall.
I stayed on the floor a long time, throat raw, lips swollen, the taste of my own brother thick musky dick on my tongue. My cock was
hard and leaking inside my shorts. I didn’t even touch it yet. I just sat there in the dark, breathing hard, already knowing I’d let him do it again the second he asked.
Because as rough and rude and fucked-up as he was…he was still the most masculine thing I’d ever wanted.

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Chapter 2

Music suggestion: Drake - Slap the city

Mom left early.
I heard her moving around the kitchen a little after seven — the quiet clink of a coffee mug, the soft jingle of her keys. She came to my door and knocked once before opening it a crack.

“Ash. I’m going to take a few extra jobs this week. The Martinez want the whole house done and that office building on 4th needs a deep clean before Monday. Can you stay home with your brother? Just for a few days. Make sure he eats, keep him company. He’s still adjusting.”

I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “Yeah. Of course.”

She smiled, tired but grateful. “Thank you, sweetheart. There’s money on the counter if you need anything. And Ash—” She hesitated in the doorway. “Be patient with him. He’s not the same.”

“I know.” Of course I knew, I slept with him until 5AM before returning to my bed.

After she left, the house felt different. Quieter. The kind of quiet that settles in when it’s just two people and too much unsaid history. I stood in the kitchen for a long time staring at the empty coffee pot, replaying the night before in pieces, the way Calum had held me, the thick heat of him sliding between my cheeks, the broken sound he made when he came against my back. My stomach tightened just from the memory. I still had his dry cum on my skin, like his imprint.

I decided to cook properly.
Not the usual toast and whatever was left in the fridge. Something decent. Bacon, scrambled eggs with cheese, pancakes with fruit, fresh orange juice, the good maple syrup Mom kept on the top shelf. I moved around the kitchen slowly, letting the smell of bacon fill the whole house. I cracked the eggs one by one, whisked the batter longer than I needed to, flipped the pancakes carefully. By the time everything was ready it was almost nine and the kitchen looked like a real breakfast had happened in it.

I loaded two plates onto a tray, added forks and the syrup, and walked down the hall to Calum’s room.

The door was half open. He was still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the mattress. The sheet had slipped down to his waist. Morning light cut across the hard lines of his back and the thick muscle of his shoulders. His new buzzcut giving him a new edge. He’s no longer the preppy boy, his a bad boy now, my big bro, my ex-con. I can’t lie to myself that it turned me on so much. The black ankle monitor sat against his skin like a reminder.
I set the tray on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Calum.”

He made a low sound and turned his face into the pillow.

“Calum. Wake up. I made breakfast.”

He shifted, groaned, and finally opened his eyes. For a second he looked confused, like he didn’t remember where he was. Then his gaze landed on me and something in his expression softened.

“What time is it?”

“Almost nine. Mom already left for work. She asked me to stay home with you for a few days.”

Calum pushed himself up onto his elbows, the sheet sliding further down. His chest was bare, the thick muscle and the light dusting of dark hair catching the light. He ran a hand over his buzzed head and blinked at the tray.

“You cooked for me?”

“Yeah. Proper breakfast. Move over.”

He shifted toward the wall without arguing. I climbed onto the bed with the tray and set it between us. The mattress dipped under my weight. Calum leaned back against the headboard, still half-asleep, and watched me like he wasn’t sure what to do with the situation.
I cut a piece of pancake, dragged it through the syrup, and held the fork out toward him.

“Open.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You gonna feed me?”

“Just take it.”

He opened his mouth, still looking faintly amused, and let me put the fork between his lips. He chewed slowly, eyes closing for a second.

“Fuck. That’s good.”

“There’s bacon too. And eggs.”

I fed him another piece of pancake, then a strip of bacon. Calum let me do it without protest, which somehow felt more intimate than anything that had happened the night before. Every so often his eyes would flick up to my face while he chewed, and the quiet between us would stretch a little longer than it should have.

“You’re being weirdly nice, you’re my little brother, I should be the one feeding you.” he said after a while, voice still rough with sleep.

“You just got out of prison. Figured you deserved a decent breakfast. But dong get used to it, this is not a 5 star hotel.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and accepted another forkful of eggs. A bit of cheese stuck to the corner of his mouth. Without thinking I reached out and wiped it away with my thumb. Calum went still for half a second. I pulled my hand back and pretended to focus on cutting more pancake.

We kept eating like that, me feeding him more than I fed myself, the tray balanced between our legs, the occasional quiet comment about how good the bacon was or how Mom never let him have this much syrup when we were kids. At one point he reached over and stole a piece of pancake straight from my plate with his fingers. I smacked his hand. He grinned, the first real, unguarded smile I’d seen on him since he got home.

“Still a little shit,” he muttered.

“You taught me.”

After the food was mostly gone I set the tray on the floor and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. Calum watched me unlock it and open Spotify.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you what you missed.” I scrolled through the albums I’d saved. “Hip-hop didn’t stop just because you were locked up.”

I put on Drake first — the album that dropped a few months ago. Calum listened in silence for the first track, then the second, expression unreadable. When the third song started he leaned his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes.

“This is actually good.”

“Told you.”

I played him a few more — some Travis Scott, a couple of tracks from the new Cole album, one of the more underground ones I’d gotten obsessed with over the last year. Calum didn’t talk much.

He just listened, occasionally nodding, sometimes asking who the artist was. At one point he reached over and took the phone from my hand so he could read the lyrics on the screen. Our fingers brushed. Neither of us pulled away immediately.

“You really stayed home this whole time?” he asked after a while, still looking at the phone. “No parties, no boyfriends, nothing?”

“Mostly just work. Mom needed the emotional support.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. Then he set the phone down on the bed between us.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with all that.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” His voice was lower now. “I fucked up. I know I did. And you and Mom paid for it.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just nodded.
The music kept playing softly from the phone. The empty plates sat on the floor. Outside, a lawnmower started up somewhere down the street. Inside the room the air felt thicker than it had a few minutes ago.

Calum shifted against the headboard. The sheet had slipped down to his hips. I could see the clear outline of him underneath it — soft still, but heavy. My eyes lingered a second too long. When I looked up he was already watching me.
The silence stretched.

I cleared my throat. “You want more coffee or anything?”

“No, you just treated me like a king. No one ever done this shit for me before. No girl, no one.”

Another few seconds passed. My pulse was starting to pick up for no good reason. Or for a very obvious reason that neither of us was naming yet.
Calum’s voice came out quieter than before.

“You’ve been looking at me like that since last night.”

I felt heat climb up my neck. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking about what we did.”

I didn’t deny it.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and looked down at his own lap for a second, then back at me. Something conflicted moved across his face, hunger, shame, and the clear memory of how hard he’d come against my back only hours earlier.

“I keep thinking about it too,” he admitted. “The way it felt. How easy you made it.”

My mouth went dry.
Calum’s hand moved under the sheet. I watched the fabric shift as he adjusted himself. When he spoke again his voice had dropped even lower.

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m not asking.”

I held his gaze for a long moment. Then I shifted closer on the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, and reached out. I rested my hand on his thigh over the sheet, feeling the solid muscle underneath.

“I know you’re not asking,” I said. “I’m offering.”

Calum’s breath caught.
I pulled the sheet down slowly. His cock was already filling out, thick and heavy, the head starting to swollen as blood rushed into it. I wrapped my fingers around the base and felt it twitch and swell further in my grip. Calum let out a low, rough sound and let his head fall back against the headboard.

“Ash…”

“Just let me.”

I leaned down and took him into my mouth.
The reaction was immediate. Calum’s whole body tensed, a sharp breath punched out of him. One hand came down and settled in my hair, not pushing yet, just resting there as I sank lower. He was still only half-hard when I first closed my lips around him, but he thickened fast against my tongue, the weight of him stretching my mouth wider with every second.

I worked him slowly at first, long, wet strokes, tongue pressing against the underside, taking a little more each time. Spit built quickly. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room. Calum’s breathing turned heavier almost immediately. His fingers tightened in my hair.

“Fuck… that’s good. That’s so fucking good.”

I took him deeper, ignoring the way my throat tried to close. The thick head pressed against the back of my mouth and I held there for a few seconds before pulling back to breathe. Calum’s hips shifted upward to follow my mouth, a small, involuntary movement he seemed to catch himself doing.

“Sorry…” he muttered.

I answered by sinking down again, further this time, and the apology died in his throat.
The next few minutes stretched out in wet heat and the growing pressure of his hand on the back of my head. I sucked him with steady focus, taking as much as I could on every stroke, letting spit run down the shaft and over my fist as I stroked what wouldn’t fit. Calum’s voice dropped into a continuous low stream of rough praise and curses, the words half-broken every time I took him particularly deep.

“Dear God, Ash… your mouth… fuck!”

His control started to fray. The hand in my hair grew firmer. His hips began meeting my mouth with short, deliberate thrusts. I relaxed my throat as much as I could and let him use it. The wet, choking sounds got louder. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I kept going.

Calum sat up straighter against the headboard, both hands now framing my head, and started guiding me properly. The careful version of him from a few minutes ago was slipping. What replaced it was need — pure and a little desperate after a year of nothing.

“Stay there,” he muttered. “Just stay right there and take it.”

He fucked my mouth with growing intensity, short deep strokes that forced the thick head into my throat on every thrust. I gagged around him. Spit poured down my chin and onto his thighs. The bed creaked softly under the movement. My own cock ached inside my shorts, hard and leaking, but I didn’t touch it. I kept my hands on his thighs and focused on breathing between thrusts.

Calum’s voice was wrecked now.
“I’m close… fuck, I’m getting close!”

He pulled out of my mouth with a wet sound, still holding my head in place by the hair. His other hand wrapped around his cock and stroked fast and tight, the flushed head only inches from my face. I stayed where he put me, mouth open, eyes looking up at him.

“Tongue out.”

I stuck my tongue out.
Calum groaned low and deep as the first thick rope of cum hit my cheek and the bridge of my nose. The second landed across my open mouth and tongue. He kept stroking through it, aiming carefully, painting my face in heavy pulses until it was dripping down my chin and onto his stomach. The amount of it was ridiculous, hot, thick, more than I expected even after last night.

When the last weak spurt landed on my lower lip he finally loosened his grip on my hair.
I stayed on my knees between his legs, face covered, breathing hard. Calum looked down at me for a long moment, chest still rising and falling, something dark and satisfied and a little stunned in his expression.

He reached out and dragged two fingers through the mess on my cheek, then pushed them into my mouth. I closed my lips around them and cleaned them without being told.

“Good boy,” he murmured, voice still rough.

For a while neither of us spoke. The playlist had moved on to some r&b. Outside, the lawnmower had stopped. Inside the room the only sound was both of us trying to catch our breath.
Calum eventually leaned back against the headboard and let out a long, shaky exhale. He dragged a hand down his face, then looked at me again, at the cum still drying on my skin, at my swollen lips, at the clear evidence of what we’d just done.

“This is gonna get complicated,” he said quietly.

I wiped my face with the bottom of my shirt as best I could and met his eyes.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

He didn’t tell me to leave.
I didn’t offer to go.
We sat there in the wrecked sheets with the empty breakfast plates on the floor and the taste of him still thick on my tongue. And none of us pretend this was going to stop.

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A month or two had gone by, and the conversations I had with Jonathan became old memories surprisingly quickly. I still occasionally opened Grindr but didn’t have any meaningful conversations with anyone. My day to day routine was as usual as it ever was.

I was working my evening shift at the grocery store, and just like the deep dark secret I had tried to forget, I saw Jonathan walk in. My mind went blank, my stomach dropped, and my heart raced. I felt like a soldier left with ringing in their ears after an explosion almost killed them. My mind rushed to the worst-case scenario immediately.

I could envision it so clearly. Jonathan would walk up to the cash register mic and loudly proclaim how the innocent acting check out boy was actually a flaming faggot in disguise. My life would be ruined before I even graduated high school.

Jonathan must have seen the look of horror on my face because nothing out of the ordinary happened. He walked in, grabbed a shopping cart, and walked up and down the aisle like any other Tuesday. I even watched as he stopped to make small talk with a woman and her toddler, smiling and waving at the three year old like a normal human would. Those murder allegations I made up in my mind felt a little dramatic now.

Just as swiftly as he came into the store, he was already checking out at another register and out the store before I could make sustained eye contact with him.

I had survived my first encounter with another confirmed gay in the wild.

After work, I grabbed my phone and opened Grindr to see a message from Jonathan.

“I told you we would run into each other eventually ;)”

I was visibly shaking. Two worlds almost collided and I would be the unfortunate victim if they did.

I asked him how he knew where I worked.

“I didn’t, I just needed groceries and didn’t want to drive all the way to Kroger.”

Okay. Fair answer. Maybe he didn’t have it out for me after all? Maybe this was truly a coincidence. I recounted the episode in my head several times. From any outside perspective, he did seem like a normal guy. No devious vibes noted. My internal alarm was slightly dampened.

I also couldn't deny that he looked incredibly handsome, even though I was in shock. That was clearly evident. He must have been at the gym before stopping because I could see his arms and shoulders exposed in a tight tank top and his slightly hairy thighs in his gym shorts.

After thinking through what had happened, I decided I needed to see him again. Seeing him in person made it impossible for me to pretend he was a fictional character I had dreamt up.

“Okay, let’s get coffee…but not here. The Rosedale coffee shop. And you gotta understand that if we see anyone I know, we have to pretend like we don’t know each other. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely”

Chapter 5

The 30-minute drive to Rosedale felt excruciatingly long that day. The entire time I was scanning my surroundings to make sure I didn't recognize any cars with people that might have known me. Once the scene was cleared, I pulled into the parking lot.

“I'll grab a table in the far back corner.” Jonathan messaged an hour before our planned meeting time.

I walked in the coffee shop and saw him sitting in a chair while looking at his phone. He hadn't noticed I had walked in.

I went up to the counter to order and it dawned on me that I didn't even know what I liked. I had never been to a coffee shop and the only coffee I had tasted was coffee my parents made at home. I glanced at the menu and ordered the only thing that I could recognize the name of, an iced tea.

I picked up my drink and slowly made my way to the corner. The coffee shop was empty, safe for now from anyone I knew.

“Hey, nice to meet you finally” Jonathan said, arms opening to offer a hug. “I'm a hugger, hope that's okay.”

He gave me a squeeze and I stood awkwardly in his embrace. I wasn't used to hugging men and it felt unnatural to me. He released me and we sat down in chairs slightly facing each other, but I made sure to face the door slightly to monitor who came in.

“I told you we would eventually run into each other”

“Yeah, I guess you were right. I was just too scared to do this and didn't expect you to find me at work. But, I'm glad you did.”

“So Kyle….what's your real name? I know you haven't been exactly honest with me.”

I paused in hesitation. Even though I had sent pictures of my face I never actually told him my real name. I considered my options briefly. Do I give a second fake name? Do I double down on Kyle? Or am I just honest, with him and myself?

“It's Logan. Sorry, I'm just really new to this and my life would be ruined if anyone found out.”

“It's okay, you can be honest with me. I'm not here to try and out you to anyone. If there is anyone in this town that understands what you're going through, it's me.”

Hearing these words softened me a bit. I could feel my body relax slightly in my seat and my heart rate slowed to almost a normal pace.

We spent the next 45 minutes talking about our lives growing up, our families, and how we each navigated being gay. We even found out that we had both gone to the same high school and even had some of the same teachers, albeit about 15 years apart.

This insight into what life as a gay man was actually like was surreal to me. Jonathan was a human with goals, stories, experiences, and passions just like anyone else. He humanized this abstract idea of a “gay guy” I had created in my head. My comfort around him steadily increased with each passing sentence.

After we had finished our drinks, we decided it was time to go our separate ways. We walked to our cars in the parking lot and made it evident that we both wanted to meet up again soon, and I meant it.

I turned to walk to my car but stopped after a few steps.

“Hey, uhm… have you ever been to the YMCA down the street? It's a pretty nice gym.” I said to Jonathan as I looked back at him.

“Yeah I've been there before. Why?”

“Oh, umm. I don't know? Would you maybe wanna go with me and work out?”

What was I saying? It felt like the words were pouring out of my mouth and my mind wasn't thinking about them at all.

“Right now?” Jonathan looked confused.

I could tell Jonathan seemed thrown off by my proposition. Hell, I had thrown myself off by my proposition. All I knew was that I wanted any excuse to still see him.

“Yeah?” I replied with trepidation.

“Okay sure, why not. Wanna just meet there?”

“Yeah, I'll see ya there”

Jonathan got into his car with a smile on his face. He looked at me with sympathetic eyes. I could tell he knew I was nervous and scared. I think he maybe saw a little of himself in me at that moment. But I didn't care. I just knew any excuse I could have come up with to continue hanging out would have been good enough for me.

After a short drive down the road, I got out of my car and walked into the YMCA. Luckily, we were both wearing gym clothes already. Once I was inside, I threw my things in a locker and went to the weight room where I found Jonathan curling 35 pound dumbbells. His biceps bulged with every squeeze of his muscle.

I went next to him and grabbed the 30 pound dumbbells. Attempting to look cool, I tried curling the weight but found out the hard and embarrassing way that 30lbs was too heavy for me. I had lifted weights in gym class, but not consistently enough to know what my starting weight was. I looked at Jonathan through the mirror and could feel my cheeks turn red and hot. I carried the weights back to the rack and opted for the 20 pound dumbbells instead.

Jonathan watched my humbling weight mismatch and laughed quietly. After sitting his weights down he walked over to me and put his hand on my forearm.

“Here, you want your elbow to stay at your side. The only muscle you should be working is your bicep. Don't swing the weight up, slowly lift it up.”

I followed his instructions and it made the exercises harder, but I could feel the burn in my bicep.

“It takes some time to learn how all of this equipment works and good form takes even longer. I've had a few years of practice. It won’t take you long to pick it up.”

After a few more impromptu lessons on various lift techniques and form critiques, I decided to make a bold move. I remembered the pictures Jonathan had sent me on grindr when we first started talking, and I was dying to see what he looked like naked in person. Though his shirt was snug and fit his body well, I couldn’t help but imagine what was underneath it. With no real plan, I needed to make a move before we split ways.

“I’ve worked up a sweat. I wasn’t planning on working out like this today.”

“Yea me either” Jonathan replied.

“I might have to shower before I go back home.” I saw as I looked in Jonathan’s direction, but not into his eyes.

“You’re gonna shower here? Hm, yeah I guess that isn’t a bad idea.”

I turned in the direction of the locker rooms. Jonathan followed close behind. The locker room was large but only one other guy was inside. I stood at my locker awkwardly fumbling with things, waiting for the man to leave. Jonathan had grabbed a locker a few down from mine.

Finally the other man walked out and Jonathan and I made eye contact, but didn’t speak. We each grabbed a towel from the stack of clean towels in the corner. We stood side by side while we undressed ourselves. It was quiet in the locker room but my heart raced so hard it felt as if I could hear it beating in my ears. I looked over at him right before I was going to pull my underwear down and saw he had already stripped his clothes and had the towel wrapped around his waist. I watched as he walked to the showers and entered the last one on the left. Like a moth to a flame, I followed quickly behind. Once I was close enough to the shower I could see Jonathan’s naked body under the flow of water. He left the curtain half open and stood staring at me while rubbing water over his body. I did one last scan of the room, empty still, and then walked into the shower and inevitably, my future.

Thanks for reading! If you like the story and want to read ahead, I have chapters 1-6 posted on patreon as well as a camping story. Thanks again for all the nice comments!

Song suggestion - Drake “Calling My Name” and “Sticky”

Chapter 2 – Calum’s POV

I woke up to the smell of bacon.
For a few seconds I didn’t move. The sheets still held the shape of Ash’s body from the night before. My arm was stretched across the empty space where he had been. The ankle monitor sat heavy against my skin, a constant reminder that I wasn’t free, only relocated.

I could still feel him.
The way he had pushed back against me in the dark. The soft, broken sounds he made when I came all over his back. The fact that he hadn’t pulled away. That he had stayed. That he had let me use him like that for relief after a year of nothing but my own hand and the kind of memories that still woke me up screaming. Yes guys in prison fuck each other, fortunately I was in a ward where things were controlled enough, familiars of rich people, sons of lawyers, etc. My clean background land me on the safe ward and I was never abused, thank God.

I heard him moving in the kitchen. Quiet. Careful. Like he was trying not to wake me.
I closed my eyes again and listened.
Prison taught me to listen to everything. Footsteps. Breathing. The difference between someone who was just walking past your cell and someone who was coming for you. Ash’s footsteps were soft. Domestic. Safe in a way nothing had been for a long time.

When he finally came into the room I kept my eyes closed a second longer than necessary. I heard the tray settle on the nightstand. Felt the mattress dip when he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Calum.”

My name in his mouth still did something to me.

“Calum. Wake up. I made breakfast.”

I turned my face into the pillow and made a low sound, buying myself another few seconds before I had to look at him in the daylight. When I finally opened my eyes he was right there — twenty years old, soft around the edges in a way I never was, watching me like I might still disappear.

“What time is it?” My voice came out rougher than I wanted.

“Almost nine. Mom already left for work. She asked me to stay home with you for a few days.”

I pushed myself up onto my elbows. The sheet slid down. I watched his eyes drop to my chest for half a second before he forced them back up. That look again. The same one from last night when he put his hands on me after the haircut. The same one that made something hungry and ugly twist in my gut.

“You cooked for me?”

“Yeah. Proper breakfast. Move over.”

I shifted toward the wall without arguing. He climbed onto the bed with the tray and set it between us. The mattress dipped under his weight. I leaned back against the headboard and watched him the way I used to watch the guys on the yard — careful, measuring, trying to figure out what they wanted from me.
He cut a piece of pancake, dragged it through the syrup, and held the fork out toward me.

“Open.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You gonna feed me?”

“Just take it.”

I opened my mouth. He put the fork between my lips. The pancake was warm, sweet, soft in a way prison food never was. I chewed slowly and let my eyes close for a second because the simple act of being fed by someone who loves me and doesn’t judge me me felt more intimate than anything that had happened in the dark.

“Fuck. That’s good.”

“There’s bacon too. And eggs.”

He fed me another piece of pancake, then a strip of bacon. I let him do it. I could have taken the fork myself. I didn’t. Every time his fingers came close to my mouth I felt that same low pull in my stomach from the night before. The part of me that had spent a year locked away from any kind of softness wanted to grab his wrist and pull him closer. The part of me that still remembered I was his older brother forced me to stay still.

“You’re being weirdly nice,” I said after a while, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re my little brother, I should be the one feeding you.”

“You just got out of prison. Figured you deserved a decent breakfast. But don’t get used to it, this is not a 5 star hotel.”

I huffed a quiet laugh and accepted another forkful of eggs. A bit of cheese stuck to the corner of my mouth. Ash reached out without thinking and wiped it away with his thumb.
I went still.

His skin against mine, even for that half-second, sent a jolt straight down my spine. I felt my cock twitch under the sheet. He pulled his hand back quickly and pretended to focus on cutting more pancake, but I saw the way his ears went pink.

We kept eating like that. Him feeding me more than he fed himself. The tray balanced between our legs. The occasional quiet comment about the bacon or how Mom never let us have this much syrup when we were kids. At one point I reached over and stole a piece of pancake straight from his plate with my fingers just to see what he woule do.
He smacked my hand.
I grinned. The first real smile I’d managed since the transport van dropped me off.

“Still a little shit!” I muttered.

“You taught me.”

After the food was mostly gone he set the tray on the floor and grabbed his phone. I watched him unlock it and open Spotify.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you what you missed.” He scrolled through albums. “Hip-hop didn’t stop just because you were locked up.”

Hip-hop is my thing. I always loved it since I was a little kid. He put on the new Drake trilogy first. I listened in silence. The production was cleaner than I remembered. The lyrics hit different after a year of concrete and fluorescent lights. When the third song started I leaned my head back against the headboard and closed my eyes, letting the sound fill the space where the nightmares usually lived.

“This is actually good.”

“Told you.”

He played me more. Travis Scott. J. Cole. Some other tracks I didn’t know. I didn’t talk much. I just listened, occasionally nodding, sometimes asking who the artist was because it felt safer than looking at him too long. At one point I reached over and took the phone from his hand so I could read the lyrics on the screen. Our fingers brushed. Neither of us pulled away immediately.
The contact lasted maybe two seconds longer than it should have.

“You really stayed home this whole time?” I asked, still looking at the phone. “No parties, no boyfriends, nothing?”

“Mostly just backoffice work for our company. Mom needed the emotional support.”

I was quiet for a few seconds. Guilt sat heavy in my chest, the same guilt that had kept me awake on the thin prison mattress more nights than I could count.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with all that.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.” My voice came out lower. “I fucked up. I know I did. And you and Mom paid for it.”

He just nodded. I set the phone down on the bed between us.
The music kept playing softly. The empty plates sat on the floor. Outside, a lawnmower started up somewhere down the street. Inside the room the air felt thicker than it had a few minutes ago.

I shifted against the headboard. The sheet had slipped down to my hips. I knew he could see the outline of my cock underneath it — soft still, but heavy, already interested because he was sitting this close and smelling like syrup and clean skin and home. His eyes lingered a second too long. When he looked up I was already watching him.
Something hungry moved behind his cute expression. The same look from last night. The one that made me want to do things I had no business wanting from my own baby brother.

I didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
The tension stretched until it felt like it might snap.

I could have stopped it. I could have told him to leave, to go back to his own room, to pretend the night before had been a one-time mistake brought on by nightmares and a year of deprivation. Instead I stayed still and let him look. Let him see exactly what he was doing to me just by sitting there.
My cock was filling under the sheet now, impossible to hide. Ash’s breathing had changed. I watched the pulse in his throat and felt my own heartbeat answer it.

I wanted to pull him closer.
I wanted to put him on his back and take my time the way I hadn’t been able to last night.
I wanted to hear him make those soft, broken sounds again while I was inside him instead of just grinding against him like an animal.
The want was so strong it scared me.

I had spent a year learning how to shut everything down — emotion, desire, weakness. And in less than twenty-four hours home my little brother had cracked all of it open just by feeding me pancakes and looking at me like I was something worth wanting.

I exhaled slowly and dragged a hand over my face.
This was going to get complicated.
And the worst part was that some fucked-up, selfish part of me already didn’t want it to stop.

I didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
The silence stretched.

He cleared his throat. “You want more coffee or anything?”

“No,” I said. “You just treated me like a king. No one ever done this shit for me before. No girl, no one.”

Another few seconds passed. My pulse was starting to pick up for no good reason. Or for a very obvious reason that neither of us was naming yet.
I looked at him and the words came out quieter than I meant them to.

“You’ve been looking at me like that since last night.”

Heat climbed up his neck. “Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking about what we did.”

He didn’t deny it.
I exhaled slowly through my nose and looked down at my own lap for a second, then back at him. Hunger and shame twisted together in my chest. I could still feel the way his body had fit against mine in the dark. How easy he had made it. How he hadn’t flinched when I “used” him for pleasure.

“I keep thinking about it too,” I admitted. “The way it felt. How easy you made it.”

His mouth went dry. I could see it.
My hand moved under the sheet. I adjusted myself, the fabric shifting over the growing weight of my cock. When I spoke again my voice had dropped even lower.

“You don’t have to do anything. I’m not asking.”

He held my gaze for a long moment. Then he shifted closer on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and reached out. His hand rested on my thigh over the sheet, feeling the solid muscle underneath.

“I know you’re not asking,” he said. “I’m offering.”

My breath caught. Fuck…

He pulled the sheet down slowly. My cock was already filling out, thick and heavy, the head starting to swell as blood rushed into it. He wrapped his fingers around the base and felt it twitch and thicken further in his grip. A low, rough sound left my throat and my head fell back against the headboard.

“Ash…” My brother wants my neglected cock, again…

“Just let me.”

He leaned down and took me into his mouth.
The reaction was immediate and violent. My whole body tensed. A sharp breath punched out of me. One hand came down and settled in his soft hair, not pushing yet, just resting there as he sank lower. I was still only half-hard when he first closed his lips around me, but I thickened fast against his tongue, the weight of my cock stretching his mouth wider with every second.

This is your little brother. You’re a fucking pervert, Calum and you supposed to be straight..

The thought hit me hard even as my hips threatened to lift.

This is Ash. The kid who used to follow you around. The one you were supposed to protect. The one you left handling your mom’s emotional damage after your beat up a guy with a group of your stupid rich “friends”

His mouth was hot and wet and devastatingly eager. He worked me slowly at first, long, wet strokes, tongue pressing against the underside, taking a little more each time. Spit built quickly. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room. My breathing turned heavier almost immediately. My fingers tightened in his hair.

“Fuck… that’s good. That’s so fucking good.”

I meant it. God, I meant it. After a year of nothing, the simple fact of a warm mouth around my cock felt like drowning in reverse. But it wasn’t just any mouth. It was his. And that knowledge sat in my chest like a live coal even while my body chased the sensation.

He took me deeper, ignoring the way his throat tried to close. The thick head pressed against the back of his mouth and he held there for a few seconds before pulling back to breathe. My hips shifted upward to follow his mouth, a small, involuntary movement I caught myself doing.

“Sorry…” I muttered.

He answered by sinking down again, further this time, and the apology died in my throat.

Stop him.
You should stop him.
You’re going to ruin everything.
He’s just trying to impress you like he did all of his life. Like you always ignored in detriment of your preppy dumb bros.

But I didn’t stop him.
The next few minutes stretched out in wet heat and the growing pressure of my hand on the back of his head. He sucked me with steady focus, taking as much as he could on every stroke, letting spit run down the shaft and over his fist as he stroked what wouldn’t fit. My voice dropped into a continuous low stream of rough praise and curses, the words half-broken every time he took me particularly deep.

“Dear God, Ash… your mouth… fuck!”

My control started to fray. The hand in his hair grew firmer. My hips began meeting his mouth with short, deliberate thrusts. He relaxed his throat as much as he could and let me use it. The wet, choking sounds got louder. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He kept going.

I sat up straighter against the headboard, both hands now framing his head, and started guiding him properly. The careful version of me from a few minutes ago was slipping. What replaced it was need — pure and a little desperate after a year of nothing.

He’s your brother.
You’re going to hell for this.
You should fucking stop.

“Stay there,” I muttered. “Just stay right there and take it.”

I fucked his mouth with growing intensity, short deep strokes that forced the thick head into his throat on every thrust. He gagged around me. Spit poured down his chin and onto my thighs. The bed creaked softly under the movement. I could see the hard line of his cock inside his shorts, he was so excited for me. For my new body carved with pain and isolation. He kept his hands on my thighs and focused on breathing between thrusts.
My voice was wrecked now.

“I’m close… fuck, I’m getting close!”

I pulled out of his mouth with a wet sound, still holding his head in place by the hair. My other hand wrapped around my cock and stroked fast and tight, the flushed head only inches from his face. He stayed where I put him, mouth open, eyes looking up at me.

“Tongue out.”

He stuck his tongue out.
I groaned low and deep as the first thick rope of cum hit his cheek and the bridge of his nose. The second landed across his open mouth and tongue. I kept stroking through it, aiming carefully, painting his face in heavy pulses until it was dripping down his chin and onto my stomach. The amount of it was ridiculous, hot, thick, more than I expected even after last night. A year of nothing coming out of me in long, helpless spurts onto my little brother’s face.

When the last weak spurt landed on his lower lip I finally loosened my grip on his hair.
He stayed on his knees between my legs, face covered, breathing hard. I looked down at him for a long moment, chest still rising and falling, something dark and satisfied and a little stunned moving through me.

What the fuck did you just do.

I reached out and dragged two fingers through the mess on his cheek, then pushed them into his mouth. He closed his lips around them and cleaned them without being told.

“Good boy,” I murmured, voice still rough.
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. They felt too natural. Too right. And that terrified me more than anything else.
For a while neither of us spoke. The playlist had moved on to some sexy r&b. Outside, the lawnmower had stopped. Inside the room the only sound was both of us trying to catch our breath.

I eventually leaned back against the headboard and let out a long, shaky exhale. I dragged a hand down my face, then looked at him again — at the cum still drying on his skin, at his swollen lips, at the clear evidence of what we’d just done.
Shame and hunger sat side by side in my chest, equally heavy.

“This is gonna get complicated,” I said quietly.

He wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt as best he could and met my eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

I didn’t tell him to leave. My baby brother looked at me like I was some piece at a museum and that twisted my cold and broken heart.